IN  AMERICAN  FICTION 

F1SKE 


JJ 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 

CALIFORNIA 
SANTA  CRUZ 


3From 

Karl  3 


ooks  of 


ns 


F5 


PROVINCIAL  TYPES   IN 
AMERICAN   FICTION 


BY 


HORACE   SPENCER   FISKE 

EXTENSION    LECTURER   IN    ENGLISH   LITERATURE,   THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CHICAGO 

AUTHOR  OF  "  THE    BALLAD   OF   MANILA  BAY  AND   OTHER 

VERSES,"   "  CHICAGO   IN   PICTURE  AND   POETRY," 

ETC. 


Eije  Cfjautauqua 

CHAUTAUQUA,  NEW  YORK 
MCMVII 


r 


COPYRIGHT,  1903,  BY 
THE  CHAUTAUQUA  PRESS. 

Reprinted  1907. 


J.  S.  Cashing  &  Co.  —Berwick  &  Smith  Co. 
Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


PREFACE 

THE  field  of  American  fiction  is  so  wide  and  so  varied 
that  only  one  phase  of  it  has  been  touched  upon  in  the 
present  volume,  —  certain  types  of  American  provincial 
life  as  studied  since  the  Civil  War  by  authors  in  New 
England,  the  South,  the  Middle  West,  and  the  Far  West. 
The  literature  of  these  sections  of  the  country  written 
since  the  Civil  War  is  so  embarrassingly  rich  that,  with 
one  exception,  nothing  of  the  flood  of  very  recent  fiction 
is  included  in  the  scope  of  this  limited  study.  The  effort 
of  the  writer  has  been  to  confine  himself  largely  to  what 
is  rather  indefinitely  called  "  realistic  "  literature,  and  to 
emphasize  the  truth  of  characterization  found  in  such 
fiction  as  has  come  to  be  generally  recognized  for  its 
special  significance  and  permanent  value  as  a  reflection 
of  certain  phases  of  our  national  life. 

The  present  volume  can,  of  course,  be  only  suggestive, 
but  if  it  succeeds  in  stimulating  to  an  appreciative  study 
and  enjoyment  of  the  dozen  works  of  fiction  considered, 
it  will  have  largely  accomplished  its  purpose. 

In  tracing  the  development  of  provincial  character  in 
any  particular  novel  or  story,  it  has  seemed  best  to  give 


iv  Preface 

as  much  as  possible  of  the  author's  individuality  of  con- 
ception and  flavor  of  style,  rather  than  to  indulge  in  long 
descriptive  writing  and  cumbersome  paraphrase,  —  in  the 
hope  that  the  peculiar  charm  of  the  author  considered 
may  stir  a  desire  for  more  intimate  acquaintance,  and  so 
lead  on  to  a  genuine  appreciation  of  what  is  best  in 
American  fiction. 

HORACE  SPENCER  FISKE. 
CHICAGO,  April,  1903. 


CONTENTS 

PROVINCIAL   TYPES   IN   NEW   ENGLAND 

CHAPTER  PAGB 

I.  A  Brief  Survey  of  the  Field I 

II.  "  The  Rise  of  Silas  Laphatn  "  by  William  Dean  Howells  1 1 

III.  "  Pembroke  "  by  Mary  E.  Wilkins         ....  43 

IV.  "  Deephaven,"  by  Sarah  Orne  Jewett    ....  64 

PROVINCIAL   TYPES   IN   THE   SOUTH 

V.    A  Brief  Survey  of  the  Field 75 

VI.     "  In  Ole  Virginia  "  by  Thomas  Nelson  Page  ...  87 

VII.     "  Colonel  Carter  of  Cartersville  "  by  F.  Hopkinson  Smith  97 
VIII.     "  Uncle  Remus :  His  Songs  and  His  Sayings  "  by  Joel 

Chandler  Harris 106 

IX.     "  The  Grandissimes  "  by  George  W.  Cable     .        .         .118 
X.     "The   Prophet   of  the  Great  Smoky  Mountains"  by 

"  Charles  Egbert  Craddock  " 133 

PROVINCIAL   TYPES   IN   THE  MISSISSIPPI 
VALLEY 

XI.    A  Brief  Survey  of  the  Field 144 

XII.    "  The  Adventures  of  Huckleberry  Finn  "  by  "  Mark 

Twain" 152 


vi  Contents 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XIII.  "The  Hoosier  Schoolmaster  "  by  Edward  Eggleston     .     167 

XIV.  "  Main-Traveled  Roads  "  by  Hamlin  Garland         .         .179 

PROVINCIAL   TYPES   IN   THE   FAR  WEST 

XV.     A  Brief  Survey  of  the  Field 208 

XVI.  "  The  Virginian  "  by  Owen  Wister         .         .         .         .215 

XVII.  "  The  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp  "  by  Bret  Harte       .         .     241 


PROVINCIAL    TYPES    IN    NEW 
ENGLAND 

CHAPTER   I 

A  BRIEF   SURVEY   OF  THE  FIELD 

IF,  in  the  fiction  written  in  America  since  the  Civil  War, 
there  has  not  yet  appeared  the  long-looked- for  great  "  Ameri- 
can "  novel,  there  has  nevertheless  been  written  much  that 
is  a  true  and  delightful  reflection  of  genuine  American  char- 
acter, particularly  of  that  character  as  seen  in  the  country 
and  in  those  sections  that  have  been  least  affected  by  the 
progress  of  a  growing  national  unity.  American  literature 
may,  in  fact,  be  said  to  be  made  up  of  an  aggregation  of 
sectional  literatures  —  the  literatures  of  New  England,  the 
South,  the  Middle  West,  and  the  Far  West.  This  aggrega- 
tion naturally  lacks  unity,  but  it  is  all  American  ;  and  perhaps 
at  some  time  these  diverse  characteristics  may  be  fused  by 
some  masterly  writer  of  fiction  into  a  harmonious  whole, 
which  shall,  by  its  vast  variety  yet  unifying  American  spirit, 
be  recognized  as  the  great  American  novel. 

From  the  time  of  the  production  of  "  Rip  Van  Winkle  "  and 
"Sleepy  Hollow"  by  Washington  Irving,  of  the  "Leather- 
stocking  Tales"  by  James  Fenimore  Cooper,  and  of  "The 
Scarlet  Letter"  and  "The  House  of  the  Seven  Gables" 
by  Nathaniel  Hawthorne,  to  the  present,  the  men  who  have 


2  Provincial  Types  in  New  England 

done  the  most  effective  literary  work  and  shown  us  most 
vividly  certain  phases  of  American  life  have  usually  been 
those  who  wrought  in  somewhat  circumscribed  fields  — 
fields  that  they  personally  knew  and  loved.  And  among 
the  writers  of  so-called  "  realistic  "  fiction  in  America  none 
has  had  a  more  distinct  place  as  a  leader  or  a  wider  recog- 
nition among  readers  than  William  Dean  Howells.  Although 
born  in  the  Middle  West,  Mr.  Howells  lived  for  a  number 
of  years  in  Boston,  and  notwithstanding  his  later  life  in  New 
York,  he  is  still  recognized  as  distinctly  and  successfully  a 
portrayer  of  New  England  character.  Three  of  his  finest 
achievements  in  fiction  have  to  do  almost  entirely  with  New 
England  life,  — "A  Modern  Instance,"  "The  Lady  of  the 
Aroostook,"  and  "The  Rise  of  Silas  Lapham."  These  are 
all  in  what  is  known  as  his  "earlier"  manner,  before  his 
literary  art  became  so  subtle,  sociological,  and  photographic, 
and  give  in  a  remarkably  real  way  various  phases  of  that 
typical  New  England  character  which  the  world  has  come 
to  believe  combines  in  itself  many  of  the  elements  of  the 
American  national  mind.  In  the  first-mentioned  book 
Mr.  Howells's  characterization  of  Bartley  Hubbard  as  the 
"  smart "  young  newspaper  man,  who  is  reading  law  in 
'Squire  Gaylord's  office,  and  who  later  wooes  and  wins  and 
divorces  Marcia,  the  'Squire's  daughter,  is  so  masterly  that 
at  one  time  we  can  hardly  help  admiring  the  breeziness  and 
audacity  and  acuteness  of  the  character,  and  at  another  we 
are  driven  in  repulsion  from  its  cheapness  and  baseness  and 
brutal  cynicism.  And  when  the  old  'Squire  — "  Mr.  F.  J. 
Gaylord,  of  Equity,  Equity  County,  Maine  "  —  pleads  in  the 
Tecumseh  court-house  in  his  own  daughter's  behalf,  and 
charges  his  son-in-law  with  perjury,  the  pathos  and  dramatic 
quality  of  the  scene  go  far  to  divert  from  Mr.  Howells  the 


A  Brief  Survey  of  the  Field  3 

oft-repeated  charge  that  he  is  enamored  of  the  common- 
place. 

As  Mr.  Harry  Thurston  Peck,  the  editor  of  The  Bookman, 
remarks  of  "  The  Lady  of  the  Aroostook,"  it  would  be  diffi- 
cult to  find  in  American  realistic  fiction  a  more  happily 
developed  and  delightful  story  than  that  of  Lydia  Blood, 
the  provincial  New  England  girl,  who,  reared  in  the  grim 
and  almost  joyless  rural  community  of  South  Bradfield  in  the 
hills  of  Northern  Massachusetts,  shows  herself  on  board  the 
sailing  vessel  Aroostook  to  be,  unconsciously  to  herself,  but 
very  charmingly  to  her  exclusively  male  companions,  a 
genuine  "lady,"  —  though  to  the  eye  of  the  European  critic 
such  a  middle-class  provincial  type  could  hardly  come  under 
the  designation  of  "  a  lady  "  at  all.  And  in  Venice  itself, 
under  the  well-meant  but  embarrassing  surveillance  of  her 
half-Europeanized  aunt,  Lydia  is  as  easily  the  true  and  self- 
possessed  and  irresistible  "  lady  "  as  she  was  under  the  eyes 
of  the  chivalrous  old  sea-captain  Jenness,  the  vulgar  and 
drunken  Hicks,  or  the  hypercritical  and  cynical  Stamford. 
Mr.  Howells  has  given  to  this  unique  story  a  distinctly 
provincial  setting,  his  opening  and  closing  chapters  bringing 
before  the  mind  with  almost  perfect  art  the  characteristic 
figures  of  fussy  but  undemonstrative  Aunt  Maria,  Deacon 
Latham,  the  domesticated  and  uncertain  old  grandfather, 
Ezra  Perkins,  the  dumb  and  formal  driver  of  the  yellow 
Concord  coach,  besides  the  picture  of  the  " blue-cold" 
meeting-house,  the  savage  desolation  of  the  snow-hidden 
hills,  the  graveyard,  as  animated  as  the  rest  of  the  village, 
the  sheet-iron  stove  in  the  parlor,  the  horsehair  furniture, 
and  the  pea-green  lamp  with  the  red  woolen  wick  that  lights 
up  this  typical  New  England  village  with  an  immortal  glow. 

But  the  most  distinctively  and  broadly  national  figure  that 


4  Provincial  Types  in  New  England 

Mr.  Howells  has  drawn  is  probably  that  in  "  Silas  Lapham," 
—  the  character  of  the  paint  manufacturer,  that  typical 
product  of  the  American  nouvcaux  riches,  who  has  struggled 
out  and  up  from  the  bleak  Vermont  hills  into  a  prosperous 
and  expanding  business  in  Boston,  and  who  yet  hangs  sus- 
pended above  the  precipice  of  social  failure  when  he  pitifully 
discovers  that  his  hard-earned  money  cannot  buy  him  posi- 
tion or  friendships  or  culture.  Here  are  the  braggadocio 
of  the  self-made  man  who  is  praising  his  creator  and 
is  yet  self-depreciative,  the  shrewd  and  refreshing  humor, 
the  instinctive  generosity  and  genuine  nobility,  the  undying 
energy  and  sure  eye  to  the  main  chance,  and  the  merciless 
conscientiousness  that  pursues  even  to  self-ruin  —  these  are 
all  here,  united  in  a  Yankee  nature  that  stirs  one's  sense  of 
the  ridiculous,  the  pathetic,  and  the  positively  heroic.  And 
much  of  this  is  felt  even  in  the  first  few  pages  of  "  The  Rise 
of  Silas  Lapham,"  through  the  subtle  and  vivid  power  of 
the  novelist,  —  in  that  memorable  interview  with  Bartley 
Hubbard,  who  seems  unerringly  to  penetrate  every  weak 
little  vanity  of  the  boastful  and  self-centered  man,  and 
draw  from  him  without  reserve  the  wearisome  minutiae  of 
a  commonplace  life. 

Another  convincing  study  of  a  rural  type  under  urban 
conditions  is  found  in  "  The  Minister's  Charge,"  in  which, 
through  the  unwilling  agency  of  a  Boston  preacher,  Lem- 
uel Barker,  a  raw  New  England  boy  from  Willoughby 
Pastures,  smitten  with  the  egotism  of  literary  creation, 
comes  to  the  city  bent  on  publishing  a  poem  ;  and  by 
strangely  connected  causes  the  poor  boy  is  driven  on  from 
one  emergency  to  another,  through  love  and  poverty  and 
ambition  and  shame  and  self-sacrifice,  to  an  apparently 
impotent  end.  And  with  him  are  involved  such  strongly 


A  Brief  Survey  of  the  Field  5 

provincial  types  as  his  first  sweetheart,  Statira  Dudley, 
her  garrulous  and  insuppressible  companion,  'Manda  Grier, 
and  his  strong-minded,  self-forgetting,  bloomer-wearing 
old  mother. 

Among  the  many  writers  who  have  attempted  to  set 
forth  the  salient  characteristics  of  the  provincial  New 
England  type,  few  can  be  ranked  above  Miss  Wilkins, 
whose  realistic  art  has  a  sure  and  sympathetic  touch  for 
the  grim,  gaunt,  indomitable  figures  that  move  through 
the  fields  and  remoter  villages  of  the  Puritan's  country. 
In  her  "  Humble  Romance,"  her  "  New  England  Nun  and 
Other  Stories,"  and  her  more  ambitious  work,  "  Pem- 
broke," she  has  given  faithful  and  vivid  pictures  of  rural 
and  community  life,  —  in  fact,  they  are  often  so  closely 
drawn  as  to  be  almost  painful  in  their  embodiment  of 
merciless  conscience,  unrelenting  will,  joyless  religious 
life,  a  certain  moral  intolerance,  and  a  lack  of  the  sweet 
and  lovable  and  beautiful.  Will  and  conscience  dominate 
some  of  her  stories  like  passions,  and  they  sometimes  run 
to  tragic  and  grotesque  excesses  in  their  manifestations, 
which  may  be  true  enough  and  characteristic  enough,  but 
which  make  us  exclaim  at  times,  "  Why  this  eternal  round 
of  unrelieved  rigidity  and  self-imposed  tragedy  and  mis- 
ery ?  "  But  here  and  there,  in  truth  to  life  also,  are  the 
lighter  touches  of  humor  and  charity  and  intense  but  un- 
demonstrative love. 

Many  of  Miss  Wilkins's  people  are  so  "set,"  as  the 
Yankees  themselves  would  say,  that  they  almost  pass  the 
bounds  of  the  reader's  patience  ;  and,  as  in  "  Pembroke," 
a  young  man  will  sooner  give  up  the  girl  he  loves  than  go 
back  on  a  rashly  spoken  word,  —  a  father  will  sooner  see 
his  daughter  go  through  a  long  life  unmarried  and  em- 


6  Provincial  Types  in  New  England 

bittered  than  suffer  himself  to  speak  a  word  of  apology 
for  a  hot-tempered  outbreak.  This  idolatry  of  self-esteem 
and  self-will  is  most  vividly  shown  in  the  dominating  spirit 
of  Deborah  Thayer  in  "Pembroke"  —  a  veritable  she- 
Puritan,  who  stands  before  us  thin-lipped,  insistent,  unfor- 
giving. And  her  son,  Barney  Thayer,  is  like  unto  herself 
—  as  "set"  and  as  hopelessly  stubborn.  With  his  new 
house  all  but  finished,  with  an  attractive  and  loyal  woman, 
Charlotte  Barnard,  ready  to  marry  him,  he  comes  for 
almost  the  last  of  many  visits  to  woo  his  sweetheart.  But 
on  that  fatal  night  his  will  clashes  with  the  equally  impe- 
rious will  of  his  prospective  father-in-law,  Cephas  Barnard; 
the  old  man  orders  him  from  the  house,  and  Barney  Thayer 
vows  never  to  cross  the  threshold  again,  —  "I  never  will, 
by  the  Lord  Almighty."  The  door  slams  after  him,  but 
his  sweetheart,  Charlotte,  eagerly  follows  him,  calling  his 
name  j  yet  he  does  not  even  turn  his  head.  And  through 
long  years  he  kept  his  stubborn  word,  the  new  house 
occupied  only  by  the  ghost  of  a  thwarted  love,  and  the 
lives  of  himself  and  the  woman  he  loved  dragging  on  in 
needless  misery  and  daily  bitterness. 

Yet  underneath  all  this  apparent  rigidness  of  nature  is 
glowing  in  the  book  the  intense  flame  of  passion  that  will 
not  be  put  out,  and  in  its  scorching  effect  even  the  grim 
stiffness  of  Deborah  Thayer  suffers.  For  her  own  daugh- 
ter, Rebecca,  when  thwarted  by  her  mother  in  her  strong 
love  for  William  Berry,  secretly  yields  to  his  passion  ; 
and  as  the  languid,  pining  girl  is  submitting  to  the  fitting 
of  a  new  dress,  which  is  being  made  by  her  mother  as  a 
sort  of  consoling  gift,  the  truth  that  she  has  loved  not 
wisely  but  too  well  is  only  too  evident.  Her  mother  orders 
her  from  the  house  even  in  the  midst  of  a  snow-storm  — • 


A  Brief  Survey  of  the  Field  7 

she  is  more  relentless  than  the  fury  of  the  storm  itself. 
Later,  after  Rebecca's  forced  marriage  and  the  birth  of 
her  dead  child,  her  mother  seems  ignorant  of  her  exist- 
ence;  and  no  one  ventures  to  mention  Rebecca's  name 
in  her  presence. 

The  reader  is  sometimes  tempted  to  inquire  if  there  is 
really  blood  in  the  veins  of  some  of  these  people  presented 
by  the  pitiless  art  of  Miss  Wilkins.  Mr.  Barrie's  "  Auld 
Lichts,"  grim  as  they  are,  are  softly  human  in  comparison 
with  some  of  these  New  England  types.  But  in  extenua- 
tion it  must  be  said  that  characters  like  Deborah  Thayer 
are  often  religious  in  their  motives  and  action,  and  confuse 
their  own  will  with  the  imagined  will  of  the  God  of  all. 
And  this  is  pathetically  illustrated  in  the  punishment  of 
her  invalid  son,  Ephraim,  which  resulted  so  unexpectedly 
in  his  death.  His  mother  was  doing  it,  she  thought,  for 
his  present  and  eternal  good. 

A  kindlier,  sweeter  phase  of  New  England  life  is  seen 
in  the  satisfying  art  of  the  books  written  by  Sarah  Orne 
Jewett,  who,  for  subtle  sympathy  with  her  characters,  an 
appreciation  of  their  finer,  higher  qualities,  and  a  medium 
of  expression  Greek-like  in  its  simplicity  and  serenity, 
must  take  a  very  high  place  in  the  portrayal  of  provincial 
New  England  types.  In  "  Country  By-Ways,"  "  Tales  of 
New  England,"  and  "  A  Country  Doctor,"  and  especially 
in  "  A  Marsh  Island  "  and  "  Deephaven,"  Miss  Jewett  has 
done  very  much  to  preserve  in  permanent  literary  form 
the  quaint  and  beautiful  traits  of  rural  New  England.  As 
one  recalls  the  people  in  "  A  Marsh  Island,"  the  exquisite 
and  lovable  figure  of  Doris  Owen  emerges  in  the  dawn- 
light  of  that  memorable  morning  when  she  made  her  trem- 
bling and  heroic  way  to  Westmarket  to  confess  her  love 


8  Provincial  Types  in  New  England 

and  dissuade  her  angry  lover  from  embarking  for  the 
Banks.  And  there  is  Doris's  dear  old  father  with  the  touch 
of  sentiment  and  imagination  and  love  of  nature,  and  the 
tireless  and  ambitious  mother,  and  Jim  Fales,  and  the  jeal- 
ous but  virile  and  constant  Dan  Lester,  —  a  group  of  rural 
figures  made  all  the  more  interesting  by  the  unique  back- 
ground of  quiet  beauty  and  color  that  Miss  Jewett  knows 
how  to  draw  so  easily  and  so  effectively. 

In  Miss  Jewett's  "  Deephaven  "  we  have  a  collection  of 
short  sketches  and  stories  that  show  her  art  at  its  highest, 
and  so  realistic  as  to  lead  many  readers  to  suppose  that 
"  Deephaven  "  is  a  veritable  New  England  seaport  known 
to  themselves.  Miss  Jewett,  however,  in  her  preface,  dis- 
claims any  close  identity  in  her  characterizations,  and 
denies  that  "  Deephaven  "  is  on  the  actual  map  of  New 
England.  The  two  Boston  girls  who  spent  that  mem- 
orable summer  in  the  quaint  old  Brandon  house  at  Deep- 
haven  make  delightfully  fresh  and  interesting  figures 
amid  the  decayed  aristocracy  and  retired  sea-captains  and 
talkative  widows  and  sedate  spinsters  of  the  inactive  but 
charming  old  seaport.  The  optimistic  and  humorous  Mrs. 
Kew,wife  of  the  lighthouse  keeper,  the  reminiscent  "Widow 
Jim,"  who  could  make  rugs  and  preside  at  funerals,  and 
had  "  faculty  "  ;  the  pipe-smoking,  story-telling  old  sea- 
captains,  like  Captain  Isaac  Horn ;  Captain  Lant,  who, 
though  now  devoted  to  farming,  had  to  take  "a  day's 
fishing  every  hand's  turn,  to  keep  the  old  hulk  clear  of 
barnacles;"  the  lame,  red-shirted  "  Danny,"  with  his  cat 
and  hospital  stories ;  and  the  visionary  Captain  Sands, 
who  had  a  sort  of  marine  museum  and  was  a  specialist  in 
weather  and  the  mysteries  of  telepathy,  —  some  of  these 
types  seem  done  from  the  life,  and  over  them  all  is  a 


A  Brief  Survey  of  the  Field  9 

misty  light  of  remoteness  and  tradition  that  softens  and 
endears. 

Another  volume  that  is  redolent  of  New  England  sea  air 
is  "  Caleb  West,  Master  Diver,"  which  was  written  out  of 
the  actual  experiences  of  the  author,  F.  Hopkinson  Smith, 
who,  as  is  generally  known,  is  a  marine  engineer  and  archi- 
tect, as  well  as  a  painter,  lecturer,  and  novelist.  The  book 
is  alive  with  struggle  against  wind  and  wave,  with  a  sense 
of  the  truly  heroic  in  the  daily  achievements  of  such  honest 
and  noble  types  as  Captain  Joe  and  Caleb  West  —  two  as 
real  men  as  often  walk  in  the  pages  of  a  novel.  They  are 
rough,  weather-beaten  men,  but  not  coarse  —  and  their 
work  as  builders  of  submarine  structures  is  a  definitely 
shaping  influence  that  accounts  for  iron  in  the  blood  and 
a  splendid  self-reliance.  And  their  moral  make-ups  are  as 
wholesome  and  invigorating  as  the  sea  air  in  which  they 
work  and  live.  Aunty  Bell's  kitchen  is  a  place  to  eat  in 
and  to  be  happy  in,  and  her  husband's  gospel  of  compas- 
sion and  forgiveness  for  the  "  hoodooed "  but  sweet- 
natured  Betty,  the  master  diver's  young  wife,  has  in  it  a 
touch  of  the  divine.  The  "  Pocomokian,"  Major  Slocomb, 
from  the  South,  is  suggestive  of  that  even  more  delightful 
character,  Colonel  Carter  of  Cartersville,  —  a  type  of 
inconsequential,  shiftless,  but  chivalric  and  engagingly 
social,  qualities  that  Mr.  Smith  has  a  peculiar  aptitude  in 
depicting. 

New  England  has  proved  a  rich  theme  for  portrayers  of 
provincial  character,  as  we  have  already  seen,  and  a  long 
list  of  fiction  writers  covering  this  particular  field  might 
easily  be  made  out ;  but  it  is  sufficient  for  our  present  pur- 
pose to  mention  only  a  few  of  the  more  conspicuous,  like 
Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps-Ward,  who  excels  in  the  emotional 


io         Provincial  Types  in  New  England 

force  of  her  intense  characters ;  Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich, 
whose  "  Stillwater  Tragedy  "  presents  with  great  vividness 
and  charm  the  life  of  a  New  England  factory  town  ;  Sally 
Pratt  McLean,  with  her  minutely  finished  portraits  of 
"  Cape  Cod  Folks  "  ;  and  Arlo  Bates,  whose  "  Diary  of  a 
Saint  "  presents,  in  striking  contrast  to  the  title,  one  of  the 
most  intense  local  dramas  in  New  England  life. 

Although  New  York  and  Pennsylvania  have  not  been  so 
prolific  a  field  as  New  England  in  furnishing  provincial 
literary  types,  the  former  state  found  in  Harold  Frederic 
a  sympathetic  interpreter  of  his  native  valley  of  the  Mo- 
hawk, and  he  produced  a  unique  series  of  local  novels  in 
"  Seth's  Brother's  Wife,"  "  In  the  Valley,"  "  The  Lawton 
Girl,"  and  "  The  Damnation  of  Theron  Ware."  Rebecca 
Harding  Davis  has  written  several  tales  with  a  Pennsylva- 
nia background,  and  Margaret  Deland  made  a  village  in 
Allegheny  County  the  scene  of  "  John  Ward,  Preacher." 


CHAPTER   II 

"THE    RISE    OF    SILAS   LAPHAM "    BY    WILLIAM    DEAN 
HOWELLS 

PERHAPS  the  most  virile  and  typically  American  charac- 
ter created  by  Mr.  Howells  is  that  of  Silas  Lapham,  the 
paint  manufacturer,  who  struggled  up  the  ladder  of  mate- 
rial prosperity  out  of  the  hills  of  Northern  Vermont,  ex- 
panded into  a  great  business  in  Boston,  where  for  the  sake 
of  his  two  daughters  he  made  a  pathetic  effort  to  achieve 
something  of  a  social  position,  and  then  through  others' 
dishonesty,  his  own  speculation,  and  an  unrelenting  con- 
scientiousness, collapsed  financially,  and  was  obliged  to 
return  to  his  starting-point  in  the  little  Vermont  town  of 
hard  beginnings. 

In  the  first  few  pages  of  the  novel,  by  means  of  a  news- 
paper interview,  the  author  has  depicted,  with  a  vivid  thor- 
oughness and  a  humorous  touch,  the  laborious  and  self-made 
career  of  the  central  figure  of  the  story.  Bartley  Hubbard, 
a  shrewd  and  cynical  newspaper  man,  is  writing  what  he 
calls  the  "  Solid  Men  of  Boston  "  series  for  The  Events, 
and  he  desires  to  include  the  millionaire  paint  manufac- 
turer in  the  list.  As  Bartley  waits  expectantly,  with  his 
note-book  on  his  lap,  Lapham,  absorbed  in  his  business 
correspondence,  suddenly  swings  in  his  swivel-chair,  so  as 
to  face  his  interviewer,  and  asks,  with  characteristic  humor, 

ii 


12          Provincial  Types  in  New  England 

"  So  you  want  my  life,  death,  and  Christian  sufferings,  do 
you,  young  man  ?  "  Bartley's  reply,  "  Your  money  or  your 
life,"  suggests  to  Lapham  the  rather  pungent  comment, 
"  I  guess  you  wouldn't  want  my  life  without  the  money." 
Bartley,  however,  insists  that  he  doesn't  want  Lapham's 
money  without  his  life,  but  adds  significantly,  "  You're 
just  one  million  times  more  interesting  to  the  public  than 
if  you  hadn't  a  dollar."  And  thereupon,  while  he  waited 
for  Lapham  to  continue,  Bartley  jotted  down  this  graphic 
individual  sketch  in  his  note-book :  "  In  personal  appear- 
ance Silas  Lapham  is  a  fine  type  of  the  successful  Ameri- 
can. He  has  a  square,  bold  chin,  only  partially  concealed 
by  the  short  reddish-gray  beard,  growing  to  the  edges  of 
his  firmly  closing  lips.  His  nose  is  short  and  straight ; 
his  forehead  good,  but  broad  rather  than  high ;  his  eyes 
blue,  and  with  a  light  in  them  that  is  kindly  or  sharp  ac- 
cording to  his  mood.  He  is  of  medium  height,  and  fills  an 
average  arm-chair  with  a  solid  bulk.  .  .  .  His  head  droops 
somewhat  from  a  short  neck  which  does  not  trouble  itself 
to  rise  far  from  a  pair  of  massive  shoulders." 

When  Lapham  expressed  a  doubt  as  to  where  the  inter- 
viewer wanted  him  to  begin,  Bartley  rather  pleased  his 
victim  by  remarking,  "  Might  begin  with  your  birth  ;  that's 
where  most  of  us  begin."  Lapham  gives  the  information 
that  he  was  born  some  fifty-five  years  before,  pretty  well 
up  under  the  Canadian  line,  but  "  I  was  bound  to  be  an 
American  citizen  of  some  sort,  from  the  word  Go  !  "  "  Par- 
ents poor,  of  course,"  suggested  Bartley.  "  Any  barefoot 
business  ?  Early  deprivations  of  any  kind,  that  would  en- 
courage the  youthful  reader  to  go  and  do  likewise  ?  Or- 
phan myself,  you  know."  But  the  abiding  sense  of  the 
hard  seriousness  of  his  early  struggles  stirred  the  quiet 


"  The  Rise  of  Silas  Lapham  "  13 

self-respect  of  Lapham  to  say  that,  if  the  interviewer  re- 
garded Lapham's  early  life  as  a  joke,  the  interview  was  at 
an  end.  The  unabashed  Bartley  only  wrote  in  his  note- 
book how  Lapham's  parents  "  taught  their  children  the 
simple  virtues  of  the  Old  Testament  and  Poor  Richard's 
Almanac." 

When  Lapham  again  grew  reminiscent  he  felt  a  lump  in 
his  throat  at  the  tender  thought  of  his  mother's  assiduous 
care  and  heroic  self-sacrifice  for  her  boys  :  "  She  was  a  lit- 
tle, frail  thing,  not  bigger  than  a  good-sized  intermediate 
schoolgirl ;  but  she  did  the  whole  work  of  a  family  of  boys, 
and  boarded  the  hired  men  besides.  She  cooked,  swept, 
washed,  ironed,  made,  and  mended  from  daylight  till  dark, 
—  and  from  dark  till  daylight,  I  was  going  to  say ;  for  I 
don't  know  how  she  got  any  time  for  sleep."  He  recalls 
how  she  always  found  time,  too,  to  go  to  church,  to  teach 
her  boys  to  read  the  Bible,  and  to  "  misunderstand  it  in  the 
old  way."  "  She  was  good.  But  it  ain't  her  on  her  knees 
in  church  that  comes  back  to  me  so -much  like  the  sight  of 
an  angel  as  her  on  her  knees  before  me  at  night,  washing 
my  poor,  dirty  little  feet,  that  I'd  run  bare  in  all  day,  and 
making  me  decent  for  bed.  ...  I  can  feel  her  hands  on 
my  feet  yet !  "  Whereupon  Bartley,  the  unsentimental, 
looked  down  at  Silas's  No.  10  boots  and  gently  whistled 
through  his  teeth. 

Lapham's  suggestion  that  he  would  like  to  paint  his 
mother's  hard  and  stunted  life  for  the  modern  women  who 
complain  of  their  empty  existence  is  a  cue  to  the  inter- 
viewer to  swing  his  subject  over  to  the  matter  of  the  min- 
eral paint  that  has  proved  the  foundation  of  Lapham's 
present  fortune.  The  latter  eagerly  relates  how  his  father 
found  the  deposit  of  mineral  paint  in  a  hole  made  by  the 


14         Provincial  Types  in  New  England 

upturned  roots  of  a  tree  that  had  blown  down.  But  the 
country  at  that  time  was  too  poor  for  paint,  and  Silas's 
father  had  no  facilities  for  putting  it  on  the  market.  So 
that  the  paint-mine  got  to  be  a  kind  of  joke  with  the  Lap- 
ham  family.  Finally  all  the  other  boys  went  West  and 
took  up  land,  while  Silas  stayed  by  the  farm,  "  not  because 
the  paint-mine  was  on  it,  but  because  the  old  house  was  — 
and  the  graves."  Even  Silas  himself  went  off,  to  try  Texas, 
but  after  three  months  of  it  he  found  that  Vermont  was 
"  good  enough  "  for  him.  He  married  the  school-teacher 
in  Lumberville,  and  together  they  ran  the  hotel.  His  wife 
urged  him  to  "paint  up,"  till  at  last  he  yielded,  and  to- 
gether they  drove  out  to  the  farm  and  brought  back  "  a 
bushel  of  the  stuff."  "  I  tried  it  crude,  and  I  tried  it  burnt ; 
and  I  liked  it.  ...  There  wa'n't  any  painter  by  trade  in 
the  village,  and  I  mixed  it  myself.  Well,  sir,  that  tavern's 
got  that  coat  of  paint  on  it  yet."  When  Silas  Lapham  got 
the  first  coat  on,  his  sympathetic  and  filial  memory  called 
up  the  picture  of  his  old  father  who  had  failed,  and  in 
recounting  the  incident  to  his  interviewer  Silas  sadly  re- 
marked, "I've  noticed  that  most  things  get  along  too  late 
for  most  people."  He  recalled  how  his  wife  Persis  came 
out  from  the  kitchen  with  her  sleeves  rolled  up  and  sat 
down  beside  him  on  the  trestle,  and  how  he  asked,  "  What 
do  you  think,  Persis  ?  "  "  And  says  she,  *  Well,  you  hain't 
got  a  paint-mine,  Silas  Lapham  ;  you've  got  a  ^tf/^-mine.'  " 
As  a  memorial  to  his  father,  Silas  wanted  to  call  the 
paint  the  "  Nehemiah  Lapham  Mineral  Paint,"  but  finding 
the  name  too  long  he  had  stamped  on  every  barrel,  keg, 
bottle,  and  package,  big  or  little,  the  initials  and  figures 
"  N.  L.  f.  1835,  S.  L.  t.  1855,"  which  being  interpreted 
read,  "  Father  found  it  in  1835,  and  I  tried  it  in  1855." 


"  The  Rise  of  Silas  Lapham  "  15 

By  analysis  a  man  from  Boston  showed  that  the  ore  con- 
tained seventy-five  per  cent  of  the  peroxide  of  iron,  and 
the  scientific  phrase  was  pronounced  by  Lapham  with  a 
sort  of  reverent  satisfaction,  being  accented  as  if  it  were 
spelled  "  purr-ox-^*/."  Silas  enthusiastically  related 
how  the  expert  sat  down  and  told  him  that  he  had  a 
paint  that  would  drive  every  other  mineral  paint  out  of 
the  market.  "  '  Why,'  says  he,  '  it'll  drive  'em  right  into 
the  Back  Bay !  That  paint  has  got  hydraulic  cement  in 
it,  and  it  can  stand  fire  and  water  and  acids.  When 
you've  got  your  arrangements  for  burning  it  properly, 
you're  going  to  have  a  paint  that  will  stand  like  the  ever- 
lasting hills,  in  every  climate  under  the  sun.'"  And  then, 
after  Lapham  himself  had  indulged  in  a  eulogy  of  the 
manifold  virtues  of  his  paint,  detailing  how  it  could  be 
used  on  the  inside  of  a  cistern,  or  a  bath-tub,  or  a  steam- 
boiler,  or  on  the  outside  of  a  brick  wall,  or  a  railroad  car, 
or  a  steamboat  deck,  the  newspaper  man  naively  sug- 
gested, "  Never  tried  it  on  the  human  conscience,  I  sup- 
pose." To  which  Lapham  gravely  replied,  "  I  guess  you 
want  to  keep  that  as  free  from  paint  as  you  can,  if  you 
want  much  use  of  it.  I  never  cared  to  try  any  of  it  on 
mine." 

On  shelves  over  his  office  desk  Lapham  pointed  out  with 
peculiar  pride  the  finest  grade  of  his  paint  put  up  in  flaw- 
less glass  jars,  with  the  different  tints  showing  through ; 
and  Bartley  read  on  one  of  the  labels,  "The  Persis  Brand," 
which  Lapham  said,  with  much  satisfaction,  he  had  put 
on  the  market  in  honor  of  his  wife  on  her  last  birthday. 
In  his  grateful  pride  over  the  stanch  cooperation  of  his 
wife  in  their  early  struggles  to  succeed  with  the  paint, 
Lapham  reminded  his  interviewer  how  he  used  to  say, 


1 6          Provincial  Types  in  New  England 

"  It  wa'n't  the  seventy-five  per  cent  of  purr-ox-eyed  of  iron 
in  the  ore  that  made  that  paint  go  ;  it  was  the  seventy-five 
per  cent  of  purr-ox-eyed  of  iron  in  her" 

Lapham's  esthetic  sense  could  find  nothing  wrong  in 
covering  the  scenery  with  advertisements  of  his  paint,  and, 
as  he  told  Hubbard,  he  never  could  see  anything  so  very 
sacred  about  a  big  rock  that  it  wouldn't  do  to  put  mineral 
paint  on  it  in  three  colors.  "  I  wish  some  of  the  people 
that  talk  about  the  landscape,  and  write  about  it,  had  to 
bu'st  one  of  them  rocks  out  of  the  landscape  with  powder, 
or  dig  a  hole  to  bury  it  in,  as  we  used  to  have  to  do  up  on 
the  farm ;  I  guess  they'd  sing  a  little  different  tune  about 
the  profanation  of  scenery."  On  Lapham's  insisting 
that  the  landscape  was  made  for  man,  and  not  man  for  the 
landscape,  his  interviewer  ironically  remarked,  "  Yes,  it  was 
made  for  the  stove-polish  man  and  the  kidney-cure  man ; " 
and  when  Silas,  in  his  attempt  to  resume  his  narrative,  asked 
where  he  was,  Bartley  softly  suggested,  "  decorating  the 
landscape." 

But  the  Civil  War  proved  too  much  for  the  mineral 
paint,  and  Lapham's  wife,  seeing  a  providence  in  the  failure 
to  sell  it,  recognized  that  he  had  a  country  worth  fighting 
for.  "Well,  sir,  I  went.  I  knew  she  meant  business. 
It  might  kill  her  to  have  me  go,  but  it  would  kill  her  sure 
if  I  stayed."  And  the  fruit  of  his  going  was  a  ball  in  his 
leg,  which  he  called  his  "  thermometer."  His  return  from 
the  war  was  the  beginning  of  wider  operations  in  the  paint 
business,  and,  much  against  his  will  but  with  his  wife's 
urgent  advice,  he  took  a  partner  with  capital,  who  knew 
nothing  about  paint ;  and  in  a  year  or  two  the  partner 
withdrew  with,  as  Bartley  suggested,  "  the  experience." 
This  episode,  as  Bartley  surmised,  was  the  sore  spot  in 


"  The  Rise  of.  Silas  Lapham  "  17 

Silas's  memory,  and  was  to  have  a  ruinous  significance  in 
his  later  life.  But  as  he  went  on,  Lapham's  enthusiasm 
over  his  paint  grew  unbounded,  —  his  paint  was  almost 
his  religion.  "  You  pass  a  ton  of  that  paint  dry  through 
a  blast-furnace,  and  you'll  get  a  quarter  of  a  ton  of  pig- 
iron.  I  believe  in  my  paint.  I  believe  it's  a  blessing  to 
the  world.  When  folks  come  in,  and  kind  of  smell  round, 
and  ask  me  what  I  mix  it  with,  I  always  say,  '  Well,  in  the 
first  place,  I  mix  it  with  Faith,  and  after  that  I  grind  it  up 
with  the  best  quality  of  boiled  linseed  oil  that  money  will 
buy.'  " 

Leaving  his  interviewer  at  the  newspaper  office,  Lapham 
drove  to  Nankeen  Square  at  the  South  End  of  Boston, 
where  he  had  not  built,  but  had  bought  very  cheap,  —  with 
a  characteristic  sense  for  a  bargain,  —  a  house  that  be- 
longed to  a  "  terrified  gentleman  of  good  extraction  who 
discovered  too  late  that  the  South  End  was  not  the  thing, 
and  who,  in  the  eagerness  of  his  flight  to  the  Back  Bay, 
threw  in  his  carpets  and  shades  for  almost  nothing." 
Neither  Silas  Lapham  nor  his  sensible,  self-reliant  wife 
had  ever  felt  the  personal  disadvantage  of  being  in  an 
unfashionable  neighborhood  ;  but  after  Mrs.  Lapham  and 
her  daughters  had  accidentally,  on  a  summer  trip  to  a 
Canadian  watering-place,  been  thrown  in  somewhat  inti- 
mate contact  with  a  cultivated  and  aristocratic  Boston 
family  with  an  eligible  son  in  it,  it  began  to  suggest  itself 
that  a  new  home  "  on  the  water  side  of  Beacon  Street " 
might  be  a  social  advantage  to  the  daughters. 

In   discussing  with  her  husband  the  impression  these 

refined  Bostonians  had  made  on  her,  —  they  made  her  feel, 

she  said,  "as  if  we  had  always  lived  in  the  backwoods," 

—  she   asked   him   if   he    knew    them,  and    added,  with 

c 


1 8          Provincial  Types  in  New  England 

reference  to  the  head  of  the  family,  "  What  busi- 
ness is  he  in?"  "I  guess  he  ain't  in  anything,"  said 
Lapham.  "They  were  very  nice,"  said  Mrs.  Lapham,  in 
impartial  tone.  "  Well,  they'd  ought  to  be,"  returned  the 
Colonel,  —  "  never  done  anything  else."  When  his  wife 
insisted  that  they  never  seemed  "  stuck  up,"  her  husband 
with  the  all-sufficient  pride  of  new-won  wealth  ironically 
answered,  "  They'd  no  need  to  —  with  you.  I  could  buy 
him  and  sell  him,  twice  over."  In  illustration  of  his  proud 
financial  ability,  when  his  wife  received  from  Mrs.  Corey 
a  lithographed  circular  asking  for  subscriptions  to  a  very 
praiseworthy  charity,  Lapham  promptly  drew  his  check 
for  five  hundred  dollars,  which  his  wife  promptly  tore  in 
two,  remarking  as  she  did  so  that  a  hundred  would  do,  as 
she  "  didn't  want  to  show  off  before  them." 

After  much  artful  broaching  of  the  subject  of  building 
on  his  new  lot  in  Beacon  Street,  the  Colonel  persuaded  his 
wife  to  drive  over  and  see  the  site,  and  as  they  jogged 
along  they  talked  of  the  different  kinds  of  architecture  along 
the  streets  and  admired  the  worst.  Now  and  then  they 
noticed  a  young  man  lifting  his  hat  in  response  to  some 
salutation  from  a  window,  and  it  suggested  to  Lapham  that 
his  own  girls  wouldn't  "  look  very  bad  behind  one  of  those 
big  panes."  This  called  to  the  mother's  mind  the  thought 
of  the  young  Corey  whom  they  had  met  the  summer  before 
in  Canada  and  been  so  much  impressed  by.  Upon  her 
husband's  inquiry  as  to  whether  the  young  man  was  with 
his  family  in  Boston,  and  her  reply  that  he  was  on  a  ranch 
in  Texas  with  a  friend  and  had  apparently  got  something 
to  do,  the  Colonel  sarcastically  commented,  with  all  the 
confidence  of  an  energetic  business  man,  "  Yes ;  gentie- 
maning  as  a  profession  has  got  to  play  out  in  a  generation 


"  The  Rise  of  Silas  Lap  ham  "  19 

or  two."  At  "tea"  that  evening,  with  Penelope  and 
Irene,  the  two  daughters,  his  wife,  in  her  affectionate 
banter,  intimated  that  if  her  husband  wanted  to  he  could 
run  his  own  furnace  and  shovel  his  own  sidewalk  —  until 
he  got  over  to  Beacon  Street  anyway.  Whereupon  the 
redoubtable  Colonel  asserted,  "  A  man  can  be  a  man  on 
Beacon  Street  as  well  as  anywhere,  I  guess."  "  Well,  I'll  do 
the  wash,  as  I  used  to  in  Lumberville,"  said  Mrs.  Lapham. 
"  I  presume  you'll  let  me  have  set  tubs,  Si."  But,  despite 
the  joking  about  it,  the  Colonel  seemed  really  to  have  made 
up  his  mind  to  build  on  "  the  water  side  of  Beacon." 

Lapham's  architectural  ideas  were  definite  enough,  but 
they  were  curiously  antiquated  and  inharmonious.  In  the 
merciless  hands  of  an  architect,  however,  a  revolution  was 
wrought  in  the  Colonel's  crude  ideas  of  a  house ;  for,  as 
the  author  remarks,  nearly  all  architects  are  skillful  in 
playing  upon  "that  simple  instrument,  Man."  Of  all  the 
construction  the  pile-driving  interested  Lapham  most,  and 
every  day  he  would  drive  over  with  his  wife  to  see  and 
hear  the  engine  carry  the  big  iron  weight  to  the  top  of  the 
framework  and  let  it  drop  with  a  mighty  force  on  the  iron- 
bound  head  of  the  pile.  "  By  gracious  !  "  he  would  say, 
"  there  ain't  anything  like  that  in  this  world  for  business, 
Persis  !  "  One  day,  as  they  were  inspecting  the  new  house, 
the  Colonel's  former  partner,  Rogers,  whom  Lapham 
had  crowded  out  just  before  his  great  success  came,  ap- 
peared on  the  scene  and  made  a  very  uncomfortable 
situation.  His  wife  accused  Lapham  of  having  made  his 
paint  his  god,  and  charged  him  with  not  being  able  to  look 
his  old  partner  in  the  face,  —  at  which  Lapham  lost  his 
temper,  turned  his  horse  suddenly  toward  home,  and  re- 
marked hotly,  "  I  guess  you  don't  want  to  ride  with  me 


2O          Provincial  Types  in  New  England 

any  more  to-day."  His  wife,  in  her  indignation,  had  the 
last  word :  "  Don't  you  ask  me  to  go  to  that  house  with 
you  any  more.  You  can  sell  it,  for  all  me.  I  shan't  live 
in  it.  There's  blood  on  it."  Yet  they  ignored  their 
quarrel  later,  and  the  wife  recognized  that  in  a  way  his 
paint  was  something  more  than  a  business  to  him  ;  it  was 
a  sentiment,  and  almost  a  passion,  —  the  poetry  of  a  nature 
that  was  otherwise  so  intensely  prosaic. 

A  few  days  later  the  family  went  over  to  look  at  the 
interior  arrangements  of  the  house ;  and  when  at  the  fa- 
ther's invitation  the  daughters  sat  by  his  side  on  a  trestle  in 
the  bay  window  and  somewhat  scornfully  laughed  at  the 
position,  the  Colonel,  rather  enjoying  their  superior  ways, 
reminded  them  that  their  mother  wasn't  ashamed  to  sit 
with  him  on  a  trestle  the  first  time  he  ever  tried  his  paint 
on  a  house.  "  Yes ;  we've  heard  that  story,"  said  Penel- 
ope, "  we  were  brought  up  on  that  story." 

Upon  young  Corey's  unexpected  entrance  and  his  intro- 
duction to  the  father,  the  Colonel,  with  a  little  shock  to 
his  rather  sensitive  daughters,  jocularly  asked,  "  Have  a 
trestle  ?  "  And  in  a  free  and  somewhat  boastful  tone  the 
Colonel  enlarged  upon  his  ideas  and  plans,  declaring  that 
there  wouldn't  be  an  unpleasant  room  in  the  house,  and 
that  they  were  going  to  have  the  best  rooms  for  themselves, 
and  that  he  had  the  best  architect  in  Boston.  "  And  if 
money  can  do  it,  I  guess  I'm  going  to  be  suited.  ...  I 
started  out  to  build  a  forty  thousand  house.  Well,  sir  ! 
that  fellow  has  got  me  in  for  more  than  sixty  thousand 
already,  and  I  doubt  if  I  get  out  of  it  much  under  a  hun- 
dred. .  .  .  It's  just  like  ordering  a  picture  of  a  painter. 
You  pay  him  enough,  and  he  can  afford  to  paint  you  a 
first-class  picture." 


"  The  Rise  of  Silas  Lapham  "  21 

Young  Corey's  appreciative  remark  as  to  how  well  the 
Memorial  Hall  and  the  Cambridge  spires  worked  up  from 
the  bay  window  started  another  egotistical  strain  of  garrulity 
on  the  Colonel's  part :  "  Yes,  sir,  it's  about  the  sightliest 
view  I  know  of.  I  always  did  like  the  water  side  of 
Beacon.  .  .  .  When  they  talk  about  Commonwealth 
Avenue,  I  don't  know  what  they  mean.  It  don't  hold  a 
candle  to  the  water  side  of  Beacon."  The  Colonel's 
continued  assertiveness  was  hard  for  his  daughters  to 
hear,  and  when  they  got  home  Penelope,  the  elder,  enter- 
tained her  sister  Irene  with  a  very  good  imitation  of 
her  father's  characteristic  talk.  However,  in  recounting 
his  experience  at  the  new  Lapham  house,  Tom  Corey 
said  to  his  father,  with  reference  to  the  Colonel :  "  Do 
you  know  that,  in  spite  of  his  syntax,  I  rather  like  him  ?  .  .  . 
He  struck  me  as  very  simple-hearted  and  rather  wholesome. 
Of  course  he  could  be  tiresome  ;  we  all  can  ;  and  I  suppose 
his  range  of  ideas  is  limited.  But  he  is  a  force,  and  not 
a  bad  one."  And  the  Colonel  on  his  part  had  taken  a 
great  liking  to  Tom  Corey,  remarking  emphatically  to  his 
wife,  "  If  I  had  that  fellow  in  the  business  with  me,  I 
would  make  a  man  of  him." 

What  was  his  delighted  surprise,  a  few  days  after, 
to  have  the  identical  young  man,  son  of  the  well- 
known  and  aristocratic  Bromfield  Corey,  open  his  office 
door  and  ask  if  the  Colonel  would  take  him  into 
the  mineral  paint  business  !  The  Colonel  would  have 
given  any  sum  of  money  if  his  wife  could  have  over- 
heard the  request,  the  approaches  of  the  aristocratic 
are  so  gratifying  to  the  ambitious  pride  of  the  suddenly 
rich.  But  Mrs.  Corey's  insinuation  that  young  Corey 
would  feel  himself  too  good  for  the  mineral  paint  busi- 


22          Provincial  Types  in  New  England 

ness  made  the  Colonel  a  little  resentful,  and  his  first 
attitude  toward  the  young  man  was  that  of  making  him 
appreciate  how  good  a  thing  the  Lapham  paint  was. 
However,  when  young  Corey  declared  that  he  had 
already  made  inquiries  about  the  paint  and  believed  in  it, 
Lapham  warmed  and  softened  toward  him  in  every  way. 
He  enthusiastically  showed  him  a  photograph  of  the 
locality  of  the  mine,  adding,  as  if  the  photographic  art 
had  slighted  the  features  of  some  beloved  face,  "  it  don't 
half  do  the  place  justice."  Then  he  went  on  and  on, 
telling  his  paint  story  with  loving  and  unsparing  detail. 
Although  the  young  man  offered  to  represent  the  business 
in  foreign  parts  without  salary  and  purely  on  a  com- 
mission, the  matter  could  not  be  settled  so  quickly,  and 
the  Colonel  took  him  down  to  his  summer  cottage  at 
Nantasket  to  consider  the  proposition  more  fully.  And 
when,  at  the  landing,  he  took  the  reins  from  his  coachman 
and  told  Corey  to  get  into  the  back  seat  with  his  daughter 
Penelope,  who  had  driven  to  the  boat  for  her  father, 
the  Colonel  gave  her  a  wink  of  supreme  content  at 
having  so  unexpected  and  aristocratic  a  guest,  and  exulted 
in  his  prospective  triumph  over  Mrs.  Lapham.  As  he 
would  himself  have  said,  he  was  feeling  "about  right." 
The  matter  of  business  having  been  fairly  settled  after 
"tea,"  the  family  and  their  guest  met  in  the  parlor;  and 
a  volume  of  "  Middlemarch  "  lying  on  the  table  suggested 
to  Corey  a  question  about  George  Eliot,  which  only  dis- 
closed the  fact  that  the  younger  daughter,  Irene,  did  not 
know  who  she  was.  Lapham  declared  himself  in  favor  of 
stereopticon  lectures  and  the  theater  —  something  to  make 
you  laugh,  and  confessed  that  all  he  could  find  time  to 
read  was  newspapers.  "  When  the  girls  want  a  novel,  I 


"  The  Rise  of  Silas  Lapham  "  23 

tell  'em  to  get  it  out  of  the  library.  That's  what  the 
library's  for."  Lapham  was  hardly  a  bibliophile,  though 
as  near  to  being  one  as  many  other  business  men  in 
modern  life. 

When,  by  what  he  imagined  was  his  finesse,  he  got  the 
girls  to  take  Mr.  Corey  out  to  show  him  the  night  view  of 
the  hotels  from  the  rocks,  he  exultingly  gave  his  wife  a 
detailed  account  of  how  the  young  man  happened  to  be 
their  guest.  To  his  wife's  mind  the  chief  significance  of 
Corey's  request  to  come  into  the  business  was  its  supposed 
reference  to  their  younger  daughter's  hand ;  and  her  hus- 
band had  evidently  thought  of  the  same  thing,  although  he 
pretended  that  it  had  never  occurred  to  him  before.  But 
his  wife  penetrated  his  thin  disguise  and  reminded  him 
that  if  the  young  man  didn't  "  take  a  fancy  "  to  Irene,  the 
Colonel  could  hardly  do  him  justice,  even  if  he  had  taken 
him  into  the  business.  The  Colonel  protested  against  this 
interpretation  of  his  motives  and  his  ambition  for  his 
daughter;  but  in  reality  having  this  scion  of  a  well-known 
family,  with  an  assured  social  position,  apply  for  a  place 
in  his  business  and  possibly,  later,  for  his  daughter's  hand, 
made  up  one  of  the  sweetest  moments  in  his  success.  Next 
to  winning  the  school-teacher  in  Lumberville  as  his  wife, 
the  possibility  of  Corey's  permanent  connection  with  his 
family  had  moved  his  heavy  imagination. 

Yet  in  all  his  business  relations  with  young  Corey  he 
was  careful  to  preserve  the  pride  that  comes  from  self- 
making,  and  he  in  no  way  distinguished  the  young  man 
from  the  rest  of  his  clerks.  Indirectly  his  immense  satis- 
faction over  the  presence  of  Corey  in  his  office  would 
be  illustrated  by  some  such  remark  as  the  following: 
"  Did  you  notice  that  fellow  at  the  desk  facing  my  type- 


24         Provincial  Types  in  New  England 

writer  girl  ?  Well,  sir,  that's  the  son  of  Bromfield  Corey  — 
old  Phillips  Corey's  grandson.  .  .  .  He's  got  charge  of 
the  foreign  correspondence.  We're  pushing  the  paint 
everywhere." 

His  actual  liking  for  the  young  fellow  and  genuine  ap- 
preciation of  his  parts  even  deflected  the  Colonel's  earlier 
judgment  on  the  qualifications  essential  to  business  suc- 
cess. "  I  used  to  believe  in  what  old  Horace  Greeley 
said  about  college  graduates  being  the  poorest  kind  of 
horned  cattle ;  but  I've  changed  my  mind  a  little.  You 
take  that  fellow  Corey.  He's  been  through  Harvard.  .  .  . 
Been  everywhere,  and  talks  half  a  dozen  languages  like 
English.  I  suppose  he's  got  money  enough  to  live  with- 
out lifting  a  hand,  any  more  than  his  father  does ;  son  of 
Bromfield  Corey,  you  know.  But  the  thing  was  in  him. 
He's  a  natural-born  business  man;  and  I've  had  many  a 
fellow  with  me  that  had  come  up  out  of  the  street,  and 
worked  hard  all  his  life,  without  ever  losing  his  original 
opposition  to  the  thing.  But  Corey  likes  it.  I  don't  know 
where  he  got  it.  I  guess  it  must  be  his  grandfather,  old 
Phillips  Corey;  it  often  skips  a  generation,  you  know." 
And  then  the  paint  manufacturer  grew  sagely  philosophical 
and  spoke  with  all  the  certainty  of  self-sufficient  knowl- 
edge :  "  What  I  say  is,  a  thing  has  got  to  be  born  in  a 
man ;  and  if  it  ain't  born  in  him,  all  the  privations  in  the 
world  won't  put  it  there,  and  if  it  is,  all  the  college  train- 
ing won't  take  it  out." 

All  efforts  of  the  Colonel  to  bring  the  young  Corey 
down  to  Nantasket  to  see  his  family  were  thwarted  by  the 
ridicule  of  his  wife,  whose  pride  forbade  any  "  running- 
after  "  the  young  man  as  a  match  for  their  daughter  Irene. 
All  of  Lapham's  subterfuges  and  thin  disguises  with  that 


"  The  Rise  of  Silas  Lapham  "  25 

in  view  were  penetrated  by  his  wife's  quick  intuition,  much 
to  his  irritation.  But  he  always  had  his  mare  as  a  last 
resort  for  a  spin  with  Corey  out  over  the  Milldam,  when 
Lapham 's  chief  topics  of  conversation  were  his  horse  and 
his  paint,  the  new  house  and  himself. 

Lapham's  special  resentment  seemed  directed  against 
Bromfield  Corey,  the  father  of  his  new  clerk,  because  he 
made  no  call  upon  him  and  no  social  advances ;  but  his 
wife,  with  all  her  sensitive  pride,  could  see  things  as  they 
were  and  could  recognize  that  the  two  families  had  en- 
tirely different  social  relations.  Her  husband  would  ask 
indignantly:  "  Are  they  any  better  than  we  are  ?  My  note 
of  hand  would  be  worth  ten  times  what  Bromfield  Corey's 
is  on  the  street  to-day.  And  I  made  my  money.  I  haven't 
loafed  my  life  away."  To  which  came  the  penetrating 
retort  of  the  wife :  "  Oh,  it  isn't  what  you've  got,  and  it 
isn't  what  you've  done  exactly.  It's  what  you  are." 

By  the  masterly  diplomacy  of  his  architect  the  Colonel 
went  on  from  one  outlay  to  another,  under  the  delusion, 
often,  that  what  the  architect  had  deftly  won  he  himself 
had  seen  or  perhaps  conceived,  until  his  prudent  wife  was 
impelled  to  call  a  halt  and  limit  the  cost  of  the  new  house 
to  a  hundred  thousand  dollars.  Incidentally,  in  account- 
ing for  the  fact  that  he  had  an  abundance  of  money  to  put 
into  his  building  scheme,  he  confessed  that  he  had  been  mak- 
ing a  very  good  thing  in  stocks.  "  In  stocks  ?  When  did 
you  take  up  gambling  for  a  living  ?  "  And  the  guilty  hus- 
band protestingly  replied,  "  Gambling?  Stuff!  What  gam- 
bling? Who  said  it  was  gambling  ?  "  And  when  his  wife 
reminded  him  that  that  was  what  he  once  called  gambling, 
his  naive  defense  took  this  form  of  explanation  :  "  Oh,  yes, 
buying  and  selling  on  a  margin.  But  this  was  a  bonafide 


26          Provincial  Types  in  New  England 

transaction.  I  bought  at  forty-three  for  an  investment, 
and  I  sold  at  a  hundred  and  seven  ;  and  the  money  passed 
both  times."  His  wife's  warning  prophecy,  however,  was, 
"  Next  time  you'll  buy  at  a  hundred  and  seven  and  sell  at 
forty-three.  Then  where'll  you  be  ?  "  "  Left,"  admitted 
the  Colonel.  And  his  wife's  final  injunction  was,  "  You 
better  stick  to  paint  awhile  yet." 

One  night  the  Colonel  came  down  to  their  summer  cot- 
tage at  Nantasket  with  a  peculiarly  radiant  air,  and  after 
long  guessing  on  his  wife's  part  he  divulged,  with  much 
happiness  and  a  sense  of  relief,  that  greatly  to  his  surprise 
his  former  partner  Rogers  —  whom  he  had  crowded  out 
of  the  paint  business  at  a  time  when  he  saw  a  large  future 
for  it  —  had  called  and  asked  for  a  loan,  and  Lapham 
had  granted  it  on  practically  worthless  security.  The 
loan  he  made  was  of  the  money  his  wife  had  prevented 
him  from  putting  into  the  new  house.  His  wife  joyfully 
saw  in  the  whole  transaction  a  kindly  providence,  and 
said  approvingly,  "  You've  taken  the  one  spot  —  the  one 
speck  —  off  you  that  was  ever  there,  and  I'm  satisfied." 
"There  wa'n't  ever  any  speck  there,"  Lapham  doggedly 
protested,  "and  what  I  done  I  done  for  you,  Persis." 
But  this  generosity  for  his  wife's  sake,  by  the  irony  of  fate, 
was  later  to  aid  in  his  undoing. 

The  long-looked-for  call  from  Bromfield  Cory  had  the 
effect  on  Lapham  of  stirring  his  characteristic  boastfulness, 
and  there  was  much  self-satisfaction  in  the  Colonel's 
praise  of  young  Corey  as  if  he  were  a  mere  office-boy. 
"  I  had  faith  in  him,  and  I  saw  that  he  meant  business 
from  the  start."  All  this  to  illustrate  in  part  his  own 
shrewd  penetration.  And  when  the  father  modestly  and 
humorously  remarked  that  he  was  afraid  his  son  hadn't 


"  The  Rise  of  Silas  Lapham  "  27 

inherited  such  business  qualities  from  him,  the  Colonel 
compassionately  said,  "  Well,  sir,  we  can't  help  those 
things.  Some  of  us  have  got  it,  and  some  of  us  haven't. 
The  idea  is  to  make  the  most  of  what  we  have  got."  Then 
he  impressed  upon  his  caller  that  his  own  (Lapham's) 
latent  strength  came  into  full  consciousness  only  by  the 
development  of  experience ;  and  he  added  somewhat 
patronizingly :  "  And  I  can  see  that  it's  going  to  be  just 
so  with  your  son.  His  going  through  college  won't  hurt 
him,  —  he'll  soon  slough  all  that  off,  —  and  his  bringing  up 
won't;  don't  be  anxious  about  it."  He  found  it  neces- 
sary, also,  to  call  Mr.  Corey's  attention  to  The  Events,  in 
which  Lapham's  biography  had  appeared,  but  unfortu- 
nately Bromfield  Corey  read  only  the  Boston  Daily  Adver- 
tiser. In  reporting  Corey's  call  that  night  to  his  wife, 
Lapham  said,  "  Don't  know  as  I  ever  saw  a  much  pleas- 
anter  man.  Dunno  but  what  he's  about  the  pleasantest 
man  I  ever  did  see."  And  then  Mr.  Howells,  with  an  illu- 
minating touch,  makes  this  significant  comment :  "  He  was 
not  letting  his  wife  see  in  his  averted  face  the  struggle 
that  revealed  itself  there  —  the  struggle  of  stalwart 
achievement  not  to  feel  flattered  at  the  notice  of  sterile 
elegance,  not  to  be  sneakingly  glad  of  its  amiability,  but 
to  stand  up  and  look  at  it  with  eyes  on  the  same  level." 

On  the  spur  of  Corey's  call  the  Colonel's  social  ambition 
took  a  leap,  —  he  told  his  wife  that  he  was  going  to  push 
the  new  house,  and  at  least  invite  Corey  to  "  a  fish  din- 
ner at  Taft's  " ;  whereupon  his  wife's  contempt  knew  no 
bounds.  That  night  the  Colonel  failed  to  rest  well ;  he 
failed  to  appear  at  the  office  next  day,  and  young  Corey 
came  down  to  Nantasket  to  inquire  about  his  health. 
Mrs.  Lapham  insisted  on  her  husband's  not  showing  him- 


28          Provincial  Types  in  New  England 

self  in  his  dressing-gown,  and  when  the  visitor  met  the 
vanquished  Colonel  indoors  the  latter  was  still  buttoning 
up  his  double-breasted  frock-coat.  But  a  courteous  call 
of  inquiry  after  one's  health  was  not  the  usual  thing  in 
Lapham's  circle,  and  surprise  was  mingled  with  gratifica- 
tion at  the  young  man's  polite  solicitude.  Corey's  re- 
peated visits  began  to  make  Mrs.  Lapham  feel  that  in 
some  way  they  were  taking  advantage  of  his  family's 
absence  from  the  city ;  but  the  Colonel  remarked  that  the 
young  man  was  of  age,  and  indignantly  declared,  "  To 
hear  you  talk,  you'd  think  those  Coreys  were  too  good  for 
this  world,  and  we  wa'n't  fit  for  'em  to  walk  on."  As  his 
indignation  grew  his  language  became  more  emphatic  : 
"  Once  for  all,  now,  don't  you  ever  let  me  hear  you  say 
anything  like  that  again !  I'm  worth  nigh  on  to  a  million, 
and  I've  made  it  every  cent  myself ;  and  my  girls  are 
the  equals  of  anybody,  I  don't  care  who  it  is."  Thus, 
here  and  there,  the  pride  of  his  honest  manhood  mingles 
with  the  pride  of  his  self-created  success,  despite  his  sense 
of  social  deficiency. 

The  Corey  invitation  to  dinner  naturally  created  in  the 
Lapham  family  something  of  a  sensation.  In  the  formal 
note  of  invitation,  Mrs.  Corey  had  spoken  of  "  General " 
Lapham,  and  the  Colonel's  comment  at  supper  had  a  touch 
of  his  characteristic  humor  in  it :  "I  didn't  know  I  was  a 
general.  I  guess  I  shall  have  to  be  looking  up  my  back  pay." 
In  accepting  the  invitation,  Mrs.  Lapham,  who  had  no  spe- 
cial sense  "  of  the  awful  and  binding  nature  of  a  dinner  invi- 
tation," made  no  mention  of  the  fact  that  her  elder  daughter 
Penelope  had  refused  to  go,  and  in  the  hope  that  her  daugh- 
ter might  relent,  cherished  the  easy  belief  that  her  absence 
might  be  readily  excused  after  the  Laphams'  arrival  at  the 


c<  The  Rise  of  Silas  Lapham  "  29 

dinner  party.  In  her  note  of  acceptance  Mrs.  Lapham, 
after  long  hesitation  between  her  husband's  given  name 
and  her  own,  signed  herself,  "  Yours  truly,  Mrs.  S. 
Lapham." 

What  to  wear  at  a  formal  dinner  party  was  the  next 
momentous  question  to  harass  the  breasts  of  the  Lapham 
family.  The  wife  and  mother  anxiously  remarked,  "  / 
don't  know  what  to  wear ;  or  the  girls  either.  I  do  won- 
der—  I've  heard  that  people  go  to  dinner  in  low  necks. 
Do  you  suppose  it's  the  custom  ?  " 

"How  should  /know?"  demanded  the  Colonel.  "I 
guess  you've  got  clothes  enough.  Any  rate,  you  needn't 
fret  about  it.  You  just  go  round  to  White's  or  Jordan  & 
Marsh's,  and  ask  for  a  dinner  dress.  I  guess  that'll  settle 
it ;  they'll  know.  Get  some  of  them  imported  dresses.  I 
see  'em  in  the  window  every  time  I  pass,  lots  of  'em." 

The  Colonel's  bravery  of  attitude  began  soon,  however, 
to  weaken  under  all  the  dress-making  effort  and  discussion 
in  the  house,  and  vague  apprehensions  in  regard  to  his 
own  clothes  hovered  in  the  background  of  his  imagination. 
"  An  ideal  of  the  figure  in  which  he  should  go  presented 
itself  to  his  mind.  He  should  not  wear  any  dress-coat, 
because,  for  one  thing,  he  considered  that  a  man  looked 
like  a  fool  in  a  dress-coat,  and,  for  another  thing,  he  had 
none  —  had  none  on  principle.  He  would  go  in  a  frock- 
coat  and  black  pantaloons,  and  perhaps  a  white  waistcoat, 
but  a  black  cravat  anyway."  But  this  ideal  was  too  much 
for  the  rest  of  the  family,  and  particularly  his  daughter 
Irene,  who  recalled  how  a  few  years  before  he  had  been 
the  only  person  without  a  dress-coat  at  a  corps  reunion 
dinner.  And  she  remembered  her  awful  feeling  about  it 
at  the  time.  Even  his  wife,  who  would  ordinarily  have 


30          Provincial  Types  in  New  England 

admired  his  independent  attitude,  shook  her  head,  and 
remarked  apprehensively,  "  I  don't  see  but  what  you'll 
have  to  get  you  one,  Si.  I  don't  believe  they  ever  go  with- 
out 'em  to  a  private  house." 

Openly  confident,  he  nevertheless,  on  the  next  day,  "  cast 
anchor  before  his  tailor's  door  and  got  measured  for  a 
dress-coat."  Next  he  was  torn  with  doubt  as  to  his  waist- 
coat, but,  buying  a  book  of  etiquette  for  the  purpose,  he 
found  that  it  decided  against  white  waistcoats.  He  began, 
also,  to  waver  on  black  cravats,  and  on  the  critical  subject 
of  gloves  the  book  of  etiquette  also  said  nothing.  Drops 
of  perspiration  gathered  on  the  Colonel's  forehead  in  the 
strenuousness  of  this  inner  debate  ;  he  groaned,  and  even 
swore  a  little  in  the  "  compromise  profanity  "  that  was 
peculiar  to  him.  His  ironical  daughter  Penelope  naively 
asked  why  he  didn't  go  to  Jordan  &  Marsh's  and  order 
one  of  the  imported  dresses  for  himself.  This  gave  them 
all  the  relief  of  a  laugh,  but  it  was  a  painful  laugh  for  the 
Colonel.  The  Colonel  devised  in  his  own  mind  how,  by 
an  incidental  question  to  young  Corey  in  the  office,  he 
might  find  out  all  about  dinner  gloves,  but  his  provincial 
pride  kept  him  from  even  a  mention  of  the  prospective 
dinner.  However,  he  finally  bought  a  pair,  and  on  the 
night  of  the  dinner,  as  he  stood  on  the  landing  of  the  Corey 
staircase  waiting  for  his  wife  and  daughter  to  come  down, 
his  saffron-tinted  gloves  (the  tint  had  been  recommended 
by  the  shop-girl)  on  his  large  fists  made  them  look  sug- 
gestively "  like  canvassed  hams."  "He  stood  staring  at 
his  hands,  now  open  and  now  shut,  and  breathing  hard." 
Suddenly  young  Tom  Corey  appeared,  and  when  the 
Colonel  discovered  that  his  host's  son  wore  no  gloves,  he 
began  with  an  assumed  indifference  to  pull  off  his  own. 


"  The  Rise  of  Silas  Lap  ham  "  31 

Mrs.  Lapham  had  decided  against  low  necks,  and  had 
"  intrenched  herself  in  the  safety  of  a  black  silk,"  while 
Irene,  her  daughter,  "trailed  a  delicate  splendor  across 
the  carpet  in  her  mother's  wake."  Lapham  himself,  thank- 
ing God  that  he  should  have  been  spared  the  shame  of 
wearing  gloves  where  no  one  else  did,  yet  at  the  same 
time  depressed  that  Corey  should  have  seen  him  in  them, 
had  "  an  unwonted  aspect  of  almost  pathetic  refinement." 

Addressing  herself  to  Mr.  Lapham,  the  hostess,  Mrs. 
Corey,  called  him  "  General  "  Lapham ;  the  honest  man 
modestly  protested,  "  No,  ma'am,  only  Colonel,"  but  the 
correction  was  lost  upon  his  hostess.  When  he  failed  to 
get  clearly  the  name  of  the  person  to  whom  he  was  intro- 
duced, he  held  the  person's  hand,  and  leaning  sympatheti- 
cally forward,  inquired,  "  What  name  ?  "  —  a  social  method 
he  was  quite  sure  was  right  because  it  had  been  used  with 
himself  by  some  great  man  to  whom  he  had  been  intro- 
duced on  a  public  platform.  When  the  hostess,  being 
under  the  impression  apparently  that  the  elder  Lapham 
daughter  was  still  in  the  dressing-room,  asked  if  she  could 
send  any  one  to  be  of  assistance  to  her,  Mrs.  Lapham, 
turning  fire-red,  bluntly  said  in  her  embarrassment,  "  She 
isn't  upstairs.  She  didn't  feel  just  like  coming  to-night. 
I  don't  know  as  she's  feeling  very  well."  Mrs.  Corey,  the 
hostess,  "emitted  a  very  small  'O!'  —  very  small,  very 
cold,  —  which  began  to  grow  larger  and  hotter  and  to 
burn  into  Mrs.  Lapham's  soul "  before  Mrs.  Corey,  the 
lady,  expressed  her  regret,  and  her  hope  that  there  was 
nothing  serious. 

In  their  determination  not  to  be  the  first  at  the  dinner 
party,  Mrs.  Lapham  perceived  they  had  really  been  the 
last  to  arrive  and  must  have  kept  the  other  guests  waiting. 


32          Provincial  Types  in  New  England 

The  hostess  slipped  her  hand  through  the  Colonel's  arm, 
and  they  passed  out  to  dinner  last  of  all,  though  why  the 
Colonel  did  not  know.  As  he  sank  into  his  seat,  a  long 
sigh  of  relief  came  from  Mr.  Lapham,  for  he  now  felt  sure 
if  he  only  watched  the  others  he  could  keep  himself  safe 
from  blunder.  The  hostess's  cousin,  James  Bellingham, 
had  a  little  mannerism  of  tucking  the  corner  of  his  napkin 
into  his  collar,  and  thereupon  the  Colonel  folloAved  suit ; 
but  seeing  that  no  one  but  Bellingham  did  so,  he  became 
doubtful  and  slyly  pulled  it  out.  On  principle  the  Colonel 
was  a  prohibitionist,  and  he  apprehensively  lingered  the 
wine-glasses  in  his  effort  to  decide  whether  to  turn  them 
all  down,  as  he  had  once  seen  a  well-known  politician  do. 
But  it  seemed  a  rather  conspicuous  thing  to  do,  and  so  he 
let  the  servant  fill  them  all,  and  drank  from  each  so  as  not 
to  appear  peculiar.  He  was  not  at  all  sure  that  he  ought 
not  to  decline  some  of  the  dishes  or  at  least  leave  most  of 
some  of  them  on  his  plate.  However,  in  his  dilemma  he 
took  everything  and  ate  everything. 

The  Colonel  noted  with  satisfaction  that  his  wife  seemed 
to  be  holding  her  own  with  Mr.  Corey,  the  host,  and  he 
himself  was  getting  on  famously  with  the  hostess,  who  had 
the  intuition  to  introduce  the  subject  of  his  new  house. 
But  in  the  general  conversation  about  the  creative  side  of 
architecture,  social  settlement  work,  and  the  function  of  the 
modern  novel,  the  Colonel  despairingly  lost  his  bearings ; 
and  whenever  something  appropriate  to  what  they  were 
saying  came  into  his  mind  he  was  unable  to  get  it  out  before 
they  were  off  on  something  else  ;  "  they  jumped  about  so, 
he  could  not  keep  up,"  and  he  had  a  general  uneasy  feel- 
ing that  he  was  not  doing  himself  justice.  Being  thirsty, 
and  not  liking  to  ask  for  more  water,  he  freely  drank  the 


"  The  Rise  of  Silas  Lapham  "  33 

wine,  and  it  was  beginning  to  have  its  effect  on  his  unac- 
customed brain. 

When  the  ladies  withdrew  to  the  other  room  and 
the  Colonel  sat  with  the  gentlemen,  he  felt  more  at 
home  with  the  fuming  cigar  between  his  lips.  He  turned 
sidewise  in  his  chair,  intertwined  the  fingers  of  both 
hands,  and  smoked  "at  large  ease."  References  were 
made  to  the  carnage  of  a  particular  battle  of  the  Civil 
War  in  which  the  Colonel  had  been  engaged  as  a  mem- 
ber of  a  Vermont  regiment,  and  it  was  evidently  expected 
that  he  would  have  something  interesting  to  say  in  the 
way  of  reminiscence  ;  but  all  he  was  able  to  get  out  was  a 
slight  confirmatory  remark.  Now  and  then  the  haze  that 
seemed  to  envelop  his  mind  would  clear  away,  and  allow 
him  some  brief  significant  word  that  naturally  called  for 
more  ;  and  finally  he  was  able  to  tell  them  a  little  story 
about  a  fellow  in  his  own  company  that  sacrificed  his  life 
for  the  Colonel's.  The  story  was  effective  enough,  as  told 
in  the  Colonel's  simple,  vivid  way,  to  make  an  impression. 
The  Colonel  felt  it  and  was  going  to  deepen  that  impres- 
sion, when  another  glass  of  wine  seemed  suddenly  to  make 
his  brain  a  blank,  and  the  host  came  to  the  rescue  with, 
"  Shall  we  join  the  ladies  ?  " 

The  Colonel  noticed  that  his  daughter  Irene  was  look- 
ing beautiful,  but  not  talking  much,  and  under  the  exhila- 
rating influence  of  the  wine  he  now  perceived  that  a 
dinner  party  was  the  place  to  talk.  He  had,  in  fact,  a 
certain  consciousness  of  having  talked  very  well  himself ; 
he  now  carried  an  air  of  great  dignity,  and  assumed  a 
grave  and  weighty  deliberateness.  He  was  invited  into 
the  library,  where  he,  of  course,  had  to  give  his  ideas  on 
books,  remarking,  as  he  did  so,  that  newspapers  were 
D 


34          Provincial  Types  in  New  England 

about  all  he  could  find  time  for.  He  thanked  Bromfield 
Corey  for  his  son's  suggestion  of  books  for  his  new 
library,  and  he  also  announced  that  he  was  going  to  have 
pictures.  He  even  asked  Mr.  Corey  "  who  was  about  the 
best  American  painter  going  now."  He  rapidly  grew 
boastful,  under  the  relaxing  effect  of  the  wine,  and  nat- 
urally swung  off  from  pictures  to  his  own  mineral  paint. 
He  offered  to  have  Mr.  Corey  run  up  with  him  to  the 
Works,  where  he  could  also  show  him  some  of  the  finest 
Jersey  grades  in  the  country ;  he  told  about  his  brother 
William,  the  judge  in  Dubuque,  and  a  farm  out  there  of 
his  own  that  paid  for  itself  every  year  in  wheat.  Losing  all 
fear,  he  lifted  his  voice  and  hammered  the  chair  by  way 
of  emphasis.  Bromfield  Corey  seemed  impressed,  and  the 
other  gentlemen  would  stop  now  and  then  to  look  at  the 
Colonel ;  so  that  the  latter  was  surprised  himself  by  his 
ease  among  men  whose  names  he  had  previously  stood  in 
awe  of.  He  grew  familiar,  and  called  his  host  by  his  sur- 
name alone ;  and  noticing  young  Corey,  the  Colonel  took 
occasion  to  tell  the  company  how  he  had  once  said  to  his 
wife  that  he  could  make  a  man  of  him  if  he  had  him  in 
the  business.  In  fact,  the  Colonel  soon  had  all  the  talk 
to  himself,  and  he  talked  unceasingly,  feeling,  as  he  did 
so,  that  it  was  all  a  great  social  triumph. 

Word  came  that  Mrs.  Lapham  was  going,  but  he  refused 
to  hurry ;  he  cordially  invited  each  of  the  gentlemen  pres- 
ent to  drop  in  and  see  him  at  his  office,  and  made  them 
promise  to  do  so ;  and  he  genially  remarked  to  James 
Bellingham  that  it  had  always  been  his  ambition  to  know 
him,  and  that  if  any  one  had  said,  when  he  first  came  to 
Boston,  that  in  ten  years  he  should  be  hobnobbing  with 
Jim. Bellingham,  he  should  have  told  that  person  he  lied. 


"The  Rise  of  Silas  Lapham"  35 

He  would  also  have  told  anybody  he  lied  that  had  told 
him,  ten  years  ago,  that  a  son  of  Bromfield  Corey  would 
come  and  ask  him  to  take  him  into  the  business.  And 
thus  the  man's  real  secret  feeling  of  immense  gratification 
over  his  present  social  privilege  came  vulgarly  and  piti- 
fully to  the  surface. 

The  Colonel  even  specified  the  amount  of  his  fortune 
and  how  many  thousand  dollars  he  had  just  loaned  his 
former  partner ;  with  "  patronizing  affection "  he  took 
leave  of  the  minister,  telling  him  to  come  around  if  he  got 
into  "  a  tight  place  "  with  his  parish  work ;  and  turning  to 
his  host,  Bromfield  Corey,  he  jocularly  remarked,  "  Why, 
when  your  wife  sent  to  mine  last  fall,  I  drew  a  check  for 
five  hundred  dollars,  but  my  wife  wouldn't  take  more  than 
one  hundred;  said  she  wasn't  going  to  show  off  before 
Mrs.  Corey.  I  call  that  a  pretty  good  joke  on  Mrs. 
Corey.  I  must  tell  her  how  Mrs.  Lapham  done  her  out  of 
a  cool  four  hundred  dollars."  And  then  he  went  away 
without  saying  good  night  to  his  hostess !  "In  the  cold 
gray  light  of  the  [next]  morning  the  glories  of  the  night 
before  showed  poorer.  Here  and  there  a  painful  doubt 
obtruded  itself  and  marred  them  with  its  awkward 
shadow."  And  in  his  office  that  morning  he  turned  to 
Tom  Corey,  son  of  his  host,  and  demanded,  "  Was  I  drunk 
last  night  ?  " 

The  abject  self-abasement  of  his  employer,  Colonel 
Lapham,  in  the  presence  of  young  Corey,  as  if  he  were 
suddenly  made  aware  of  an  intrinsic  social  inferiority  that 
was  hopeless ;  the  agony  of  his  discovery  that  the  young 
man  had  really  been  loving  his  oldest  daughter  Penelope, 
instead  of  the  beautiful  but  somewhat  insipid  Irene, 
through  whom  the  ambitious  Colonel  and  his  wife  had 


3  6          Provincial  Types  in  New  England 

ardently  hoped  for  a  social  alliance  with  the  aristocratic 
Coreys ;  and  the  Colonel's  appeal  in  his  helpless  misery 
to  the  minister,  Mr.  Sewell,  whom  he  met  at  the  Corey 
dinner,  —  are  moving  and  dramatic  phases  in  the  develop- 
ment of  this  crude,  strong  provincial  type  that  is  suddenly 
called  upon  to  face  strange  conditions  and  new  forces  in 
its  widening  life.  His  almost  inarticulate  sympathy  with 
the  stolid  suffering  of  Irene,  and  his  steadfast  sense  of 
justice  to  the  other  daughter  who  had  been  the  innocent 
cause  of  this  suffering,  illustrate  the  depth  of  love  and  the 
spirit  of  fairness  inherent  in  Lapham's  nature. 

In  his  effort  to  deal  generously  with  his  old  partner, 
Rogers,  —  whom  he  had  forced  out  of  the  paint  business 
at  a  time  when  its  future  was  assured,  —  Lapham  had,  as 
he  phrased  it,  been  throwing  good  money  after  bad ;  and 
for  the  sake  of  his  wife,  who  was  particularly  sensitive  as 
to  the  Colonel's  former  treatment  of  his  partner,  Lapham 
had  gone  deeper  into  Rogers 's  financial  schemes  than  he 
really  wanted  to  or  judged  was  best.  He  casually  but 
meaningly  remarked  to  his  wife  in  connection  with  the 
matter  that  "  pretty  near  everybody  but  the  fellows  that 
owe  me  seem  to  expect  me  to  do  a  cash  business,  all  of  a 
sudden."  His  wife's  question  of  alarm  brought  out  his  re- 
assurance that  it  was  all  right.  "  I  ain't  going  to  let  the 
grass  grow  under  my  feet,  though,  —  especially  while 
Rogers  digs  the  ground  away  from  the  roots."  "If  it  has 
to  come  to  that,  I'm  going  to  squeeze  him."  The  Colonel's 
face  lighted  up  with  the  joy  of  expected  revenge.  "  Milton 
K.  Rogers  is  a  rascal,  if  you  want  to  know.  .  .  .  But  I 
guess  he'll  find  he's  got  his  come-uppance."  And  then  the 
Colonel  proceeded  to  tell  his  wife  how  Rogers,  by  dab- 
bling in  wildcat  stocks,  patent-rights,  land  speculations, 


"  The  Rise  of  Silas  Lapham  "  37 

and  oil  claims,  had  "  run  through  about  everything,"  and 
how  with  a  certain  big  mill  property  he  should  have  gotten 
rich.  "  But  you  can't  make  Milton  K.  Rogers  rich,  any 
more  than  you  can  fat  a  hide-bound  colt.  It  ain't  in  him. 
He'd  run  through  Vanderbilt,  Jay  Gould,  and  Tom  Scott 
rolled  into  one  in  less  than  six  months,  give  him  a  chance, 
and  come  out  and  want  to  borrow  money  of  you."  The 
Colonel's  vow  was  thereupon  registered  never  to  let  this 
Rogers  borrow  from  him  again. 

In  his  effort  to  get  back  what  he  had  already  loaned 
Rogers,  Lapham  had  become  more  deeply  implicated,  and 
in  his  confession  to  his  wife  he  made  a  clean  breast  of  it. 
She,  recalling  how  she  had  urged  her  husband  to  make 
restitution  to  his  old  partner  for  having  forced  him  out  of 
the  paint  business,  fixed  the  blame  entirely  upon  herself. 
"  She  came  back  to  this,  with  her  helpless  longing,  inbred 
in  all  Puritan  souls,  to  have  some  one  specifically 
suffer  for  the  evil  in  the  world,  even  if  it  must  be 
herself." 

But  when  the  opportunity  presented  itself  of  getting  rid 
of  the  mill  property  that  had  fallen  into  Lapham 's  hands 
as  security  in  his  dealing  with  Rogers,  Lapham's  robust 
but  tempted  honesty  and  sense  of  fair  play  proved  so 
strong  that  it  stood  in  the  way  of  his  own.  financial  recov- 
ery. And  this  rugged  virtue  of  exact  honesty  and  charac- 
teristic sense  of  fair  play  were  confirmed,  though  sadly, 
by  his  sympathetic  and  courageous  wife.  Her  pride  in 
him  was  one  of  his  strongest  props  in  the  strain  of  great 
emergencies.  She  was  willing  to  fall  with  him,  so  long  as 
in  that  fall  their  honor  and  honesty  were  retained.  Yet 
she  tried  to  be  optimistic  for  his  sake :  "  I  don't  suppose 
but  what  there's  plenty  would  help  you  if  they  knew  you 


3 8          Provincial  Types  in  New  England 

needed   it,  Si."     But   the  husband   sardonically  replied: 
"  They  would  if  they  knew  I  didn't  need  it." 

The  fluctuations  in  Lapham's  affairs  told  upon  his  face 
and  temper,  —  he  grew  old  and  thin  and  irascible,  and  his 
wife  and  daughter  Penelope  had  to  endure  in  the  home 
the  silence  or  the  petulance  of  the  gloomy,  secret  man. 
His  troubles  thickened  when  he  was  least  able  to  bear 
them,  —  he  was  obliged  to  shut  down  the  Works  at  Lap- 
ham,  where  the  fire  had  never  been  out  since  it  was  first 
kindled,  a  fact  he  had  always  bragged  about  as  "  the 
last  expression  of  his  sense  of  success " ;  a  new  and 
equally  good  West  Virginia  paint,  which  could  be  pro- 
duced by  a  cheaper  fuel,  had  come  into  the  market, 
already  overstocked,  with  a  competition  that  could  not 
be  met;  the  suddenly  roused  jealousy  of  his  wife  — 
though  in  fact  due  to  a  misinterpretation  of  his  unselfish 
charity  toward  a  drunken  widow  and  her  daughter  —  for 
a  time  isolated  him  from  her  helpful  sympathy ;  and,  last 
of  all,  he  was  compelled  to  make  up  his  mind  to  sell  his 
new  house,  which  had  stood  for  so  much  in  his  hopes  and 
ideals.  Yet  the  Colonel's  depression  was  often  alternated 
with  the  spirit  of  optimism,  when  by  some  vague  imagina- 
tion it  seemed  to  him  that  all  things  would  in  some  mirac- 
ulous way  be  made  right.  "  The  process  of  Lapham's 
financial  disintegration  was  like  the  course  of  some 
chronic  disorder  which  has  fastened  itself  upon  the 
constitution,  but  advances  with  continual  reliefs,  with 
apparent  amelioration,  and  at  times  seems  not  to 
advance  at  all,  when  it  gives  hope  of  final  recovery 
not  only  to  the  sufferer  but  to  the  eye  of  science." 
Lapham's  adversity  was  not  always  like  "  the  adversity 
we  figure  in  allegory ;  it  had  its  moments  of  being  like 


"  The  Rise  of  Silas  Lapham  "  39 

prosperity,  and  if  upon  the  whole  it  was  continual,  it  was 
not  incessant." 

In  shrinking  from  the  making  of  an  assignment  because 
of  its  publicity,  he  even  determined,  as  already  suggested, 
upon  the  sale  of  his  new  house  "  on  the  water  side  of 
Beacon  Street."  But  his  pride  would  not  allow  the  prop- 
erty to  be  described  or  his  own  name  given  by  the  broker 
unless  "parties  meant  business."  In  fact,  there  did  come 
a  specific  offer  from  some  one  who  had  seen  the  house  in 
the  fall  to  pay  for  it  what  it  had  cost  up  to  that  time.  But 
so  much  of  his  hope  for  himself  and  his  children  had  gone 
into  the  house  that  the  thought  of  selling  it  made  him 
tremulous  and  sick.  With  his  nerves  shaken  by  want  of 
sleep  and  the  shock  of  this  sudden  question  of  sale,  Lap- 
ham  left  his  office  early  and  went  at  sunset  to  look  at  his 
house  and  come  to  some  conclusion.  The  very  street 
lamps,  as  they  flared  down  the  beautiful  perspective 
toward  the  sunset,  seemed  to  Silas  not  merely  a  part  of 
the  landscape,  but  "  a  part  of  his  pride  and  glory,  his  suc- 
cess, his  triumphant  life's  work,  which  was  fading  into 
failure  in  his  helpless  hands."  He  looked  up  and  recalled 
how  he  and  his  daughter  Irene  had  stood  one  night  before 
the  house  and  she  had  said  that  she  should  never  live 
there.  There  was  no  such  facade  on  the  street,  he  thought ; 
the  whole  design  "  appealed  to  him  as  an  exquisite  bit  of 
harmony  appeals  to  the  unlearned  ear."  He  went  up  into 
the  music  room,  and  the  whim  seized  him  to  test  the  chim- 
ney by  a  fire  in  the  grate.  He  watched  the  burning  shav- 
ings and  blocks  as  he  sat  on  a  nail-keg  and  noted  the 
chimney's  success,  and  the  proud  resolution  came  to  him 
never  to  sell  the  house  so  long  as  he  had  a  dollar.  Hav- 
ing optimistically  smoked  his  cigar,  he  stamped  upon 


40         Provincial  Types  in  New  England 

the  embers  still  aglow  and  went  home  with  a  buoyant 
heart. 

But  alas !  for  human  hopes ;  as  he  and  his  daughter 
Penelope,  after  the  theater  that  night,  walked  around  to 
see  the  new  house  by  starlight,  what  should  be  lighting 
up  the  sky  with  its  lurid  flames  but  the  burning  house  of 
Silas  Lapham !  "  I  guess  I  done  it,  Pen,"  was  all  he 
said ;  and  as  Penelope  drew  her  father  away  toward  the 
nearest  carriage,  they  caught  the  humorous  remark :  "  He 
ought  to  have  had  a  coat  of  his  non-combustible  paint  on 
it."  When  he  had  reached  home  and  his  wife  falteringly 
intimated  that  people  would  think  he  had  set  fire  to  the 
house  to  get  the  insurance,  Lapham  pathetically  set  her 
mind  at  rest  by  his  answer :  "  I  had  a  builder's  risk  on  it, 
but  it  expired  last  week.  It's  a  dead  loss."  "  Oh,  thank 
the  merciful  Lord  !  "  cried  his  wife.  "  Merciful !  "  said 
Lapham.  "  Well,  it's  a  queer  way  of  showing  it."  And 
the  sleep  that  he  sank  into  that  night  might  be  called  a 
torpor  rather  than  a  sleep.  The  next  morning  he  wished 
for  a  moment  that  he  never  had  wakened. 

Though  sorely  tempted  by  the  offer  of  his  former  part- 
ner and  of  English  agents  to  take  his  mill  property  at  a 
good  price, — especially  since  it  would  mean  his  own 
financial  salvation,  —  the  Colonel  sturdily  held  to  his 
original  point  of  view  that  the  first  condition  of  sale  was 
to  be  a  complete  explanation  of  the  circumstances  sur- 
rounding the  property  —  namely,  that  the  Great  Lacustrine 
&  Polar  Railroad,  on  which  the  mills  were  dependent, 
would  probably  want  the  mills,  and  if  it  did,  what  it  was 
willing  to  pay  would  fix  the  ultimate  value  of  the  property. 
To  come  to  this  conclusion  against  the  subtle  wiles  of 
Rogers,  his  old  partner,  required  an  all-night  struggle  with 


"  The  Rise  of  Silas  Lapham  "  41 

his  conscience,  and  even  without  his  wife's  usual  help,  but 
he  was  victorious  in  the  end,  even  to  his  own  undoing. 
And  likewise,  when  he  had  an  opportunity  to  sell  an  inter- 
est in  his  paint  works  at  Lapham  to  a  willing  purchaser, 
he  had  lost  his  chance  and  all  it  would  have  meant  to  him 
at  that  crisis  in  his  affairs  by  conscientiously  telling  of  the 
existence  of  the  competing  company  in  West  Virginia,  and 
its  facilities  for  cheaper  production. 

Finally,  after  desperate  efforts  to  save  himself,  and 
with  spasmodic  hopes  that  he  would  succeed,  the  gradual 
process  of  his  ruin  brought  him  to  the  actual  consumma- 
tion of  bankruptcy.  And  all  concerned  in  his  affairs  said 
that  he  behaved  well,  —  there  was  a  return  to  him  of  his 
earlier  prudence  and  good  sense  which  he  seemed  tempo- 
rarily to  have  lost  in  his  too  abundant  prosperity;  he 
saw  the  futility  of  further  operations  in  Boston ;  he  put 
the  house  at  Nankeen  Square,  with  everything  he  had,  into 
the  payment  of  his  debts ;  and  recognized  heroically  that 
back  in  the  Vermont  hills  where  he  began  was  the  place 
where  he  should  have  to  begin  again,  although  the  going 
back  was  as  much  the  end  to  him  of  his  proud,  prosperous 
life  as  death  itself  could  have  been. 

In  truth,  life  had  lost  most  of  its  buoyant  quality  for 
him,  and  even  the  long-hoped-for  alliance  with  the  aristo- 
cratic Coreys,  through  the  marriage  of  Penelope  Lapham 
with  young  Corey,  failed  to  bring  that  sense  of  gratified 
social  ambition  which  would  once  have  been  so  keen  a 
delight.  Both  the  Colonel  and  his  wife  took  a  good  deal 
of  satisfaction  in  his  clean-handedness  through  the  whole 
process  of  his  business  collapse ;  and  when  Mr.  Sewell 
and  his  wife,  the  next  summer  after  Lapham  had  sold  out, 
stopped  to  see  him  on  their  way  from  the  White  Mountains 


42          Provincial  Types  in  New  England 

to  Lake  Champlain,  he  gave  the  minister  his  own  interpre- 
tation of  the  workings  of  his  life,  a  sort  of  rude  doctrine 
about  the  inescapable  influence  of  evil  action :  "  Some- 
times I  get  to  thinking  it  all  over,  and  it  seems  to  me  I 
done  wrong  about  Rogers  in  the  first  place ;  that  the 
whole  trouble  came  from  that.  It  was  just  like  starting  a 
row  of  bricks.  I  tried  to  catch  up  and  stop  'em  from 
going,  but  they  all  tumbled,  one  after  another.  It  wa'n't 
in  the  nature  of  things  that  they  could  be  stopped  till  the 
last  brick  went." 

And  when  the  minister  delicately  inquired  if  Lapham 
ever  had  any  regrets,  the  Colonel  characteristically  re- 
plied :  "  About  what  I  done  ?  Well,  it  don't  always  seem 
as  if  I  done  it.  Seems  sometimes  as  if  it  was  a  hole 
opened  for  me,  and  I  crept  out  of  it.  ...  I  don't  know 
as  I  should  always  say  it  paid ;  but  if  I  done  it,  and  the 
thing  was  to  do  over  again,  right  in  the  same  way,  I  guess 
I  should  have  to  do  it." 

This,  at  the  end,  is  really  an  essential  note  in  the  con- 
vincing portrayal  of  a  self-made  Yankee  type,  —  strong,  yet 
crude  ;  ambitious,  yet  ludicrously  provincial  at  times ;  full 
of  an  unostentatious  philanthropy  and  a  grateful  loyalty ; 
driven  with  energy,  yet  kindly  and  shrewdly  humorous ; 
proud  and  boastful  of  its  own  creation,  yet  almost  grovel- 
ing at  times  in  its  effort  to  accomplish  its  social  advance- 
ment ;  virile  and  normal  in  its  ordinary  manifestations,  but 
often  coarsely  vulgar  in  its  pleasures,  and  ignorant  of  the 
delightful  worlds  of  art  and  literary  enjoyment ;  and  reli- 
giously conscientious  in  its  steadfast  honesty,  even  when 
that  honesty  meant  the  cruel  blasting  of  every  hope  and 
achievement. 


CHAPTER   III 

"PEMBROKE"   BY   MARY   E.   WILKINS 

WHEN  the  New  England  short  story  is  mentioned  the 
mind  naturally  turns  to  Miss  Wilkins  (now  Mary  Wilkins 
Freeman),  because  of  her  certain  touch  in  portraying  the 
various  provincial  types  in  that  special  form  of  literary  art. 
But  in  her  more  sustained  effort  of  "  Pembroke  "  one  gets 
more  fully  the  interaction  of  many  village  types  and  a  deeper 
impression  of  the  prevailing  grimness  and  rigidity  of  much 
of  New  England's  remote  community  life,  —  a  life  that  has, 
too,  its  pleasing  contrasts,  its  often  unconscious  humor,  and 
its  strength  of  loyal  love  and  self-sacrifice ;  yet  as  painted 
by  Miss  Wilkins  it  is  gaunt  and  "  set,"  intensely  and  formally 
religious,  and  lacking  much  in  the  spirit  of  mirth  and  the 
love  of  beauty.  As  has  elsewhere  been  said,  conscience  and 
will  dominate  these  lives  like  passions,  —  they  are  driven 
before  them  like  ships  with  bare  masts  before  the  storm. 
Life  often  ceases  to  be  joy  and  becomes  only  duty, — 
duty  of  the  most  exacting  and  unrelenting  kind ;  or  else 
some  cruel  stubbornness  or  inactivity  of  will  works  itself  out 
almost  unconsciously  into  a  lifelong  tragedy  of  suffering  and 
misery. 

Miss  Wilkins's  opening  picture  in  "  Pembroke  "  is  that 
of  the  Thayer  family  sitting  in  semicircle  about  the  kitchen 
fire,  the  great  leather-bound  Bible  resting  on  the  knees  of 
Caleb  Thayer,  the  father,  who  is  reading  from  it  in  solemn 

43 


44          Provincial  Types  in  New  England 

voice ;  while  his  wife,  Deborah,  "  her  large  face  tilted  with 
a  judicial  and  argumentative  air,"  sits  straight  in  her  chair 
and  enjoys  with  much  relish  one  of  the  imprecatory  psalms 
her  husband  is  reading.  Her  eyes  were  gleaming  with 
warlike  energy,  —  she  was  confusing  "  King  David's  enemies 
with  those  people  who  crossed  her  own  will."  As  her  eldest 
son,  Barney,  came  into  the  kitchen  on  his  way  to  make  a 
Sunday-night  call  on  his  sweetheart,  Ephraim,  the  younger 
son,  stared  at  his  brother's  smooth,  scented  hair,  the  black 
satin  vest  with  a  pattern  of  blue  flowers  on  it,  the  blue  coat 
with  brass  buttons,  and  the  shining  boots,  and  softly  whistled 
under  his  breath. 

Mrs.  Thayer  enjoined  her  son  not  to  stay  later  than  nine 
o'clock,  and  to  emphasize  her  injunction  "she  jerked  her 
chin  down  heavily  as  if  it  were  made  of  iron."  But  Barnabas, 
a  chip  of  the  maternal  block,  slammed  the  door  as  he  went 
out,  and  the  mother  remarked  that  if  he  were  a  few  years 
younger,  she  would  make  him  shut  that  door  "  over  again." 
"  Barney  "  was  to  be  married  to  Charlotte  Barnard  in  June  ; 
and  as  he  passed  under  the  apple  blossoms  and  looked  up, 
he  thought  of  his  share  of  the  income  from  apples,  and  how 
Charlotte  after  their  marriage  should  have  one  new  silk  dress 
every  year  and  two  new  bonnets,  —  for  his  mother  had  often 
noted  with  scorn  that  Charlotte  wore  her  summer  bonnet 
with  another  ribbon  on  it  in  winter.  In  his  loving  pride  he 
had  once  bought  Charlotte  a  little  blue-figured  shawl,  which 
her  father  in  the  answering  pride  of  poverty  had  bidden  her 
return.  "  I  ain't  goin'  to  have  any  young  sparks  buyin'  your 
clothes  while  you  are  under  my  roof." 

On  his  way  to  Charlotte  Barnard's  he  stopped  at  the  little 
story-and-a-half  cottage  house  which  he  had  been  building 
in  anticipation  of  his  marriage.  His  father,  in  his  inherited 


Pembroke  " 


45 


terror  of  wind,  had  urged  the  safety  of  a  one-story  house, 
but  Barney  scornfully  insisted  on  a  story  and  a  half.  Through 
the  kitchen  window  he  could  see  a  straight,  dark  column  of 
smoke  rising  from  Charlotte's  home.  He  imagined  how  pleased 
she  would  be  with  the  sunniness  of  the  windows  in  this  cozy 
room,  and  said  to  himself,  "  Her  rocking-chair  can  set  there." 
In  the  fullness  of  his  emotion  at  the  thought  of  their  happi- 
ness the  tears  came  to  his  eyes,  and,  laying  his  cheek  against 
a  partition  wall  of  his  new  house,  he  suddenly  kissed  it.  As 
he  went  out  of  the  house,  he  thought  of  their  long  future 
together  and  the  solemn  end,  —  "I  shall  lie  in  my  coffin 
in  the  north  room,  and  it  will  be  all  over,"  —  but  his  heart 
was  leaping  with  joy  and  he  felt  the  proud  strength  of  a 
soldier. 

In  the  Barnard  kitchen,  after  a  somewhat  nervous  welcome 
to  the  lover  on  the  part  of  Charlotte's  mother  and  Aunt 
Sylvia,  the  sudden  and  gruff  voice  of  Cephas  Barnard,  the 
father,  bade  his  daughter  light  the  candle,  although  it  was 
hardly  late  enough  to  justify  such  a  proceeding.  But  the 
grim,  black-eyed  Cephas  suspected  that  the  young  lover 
would  be  likely  to  hold  his  daughter's  hand  in  the  dusk, 
and  he  was  going  to  prevent  it. 

Barnabas  listened  for  the  welcome  crackle  of  the  fire  in 
the  parlor  where  he  hoped  to  sit  alone  with  Charlotte,  but 
this  particular  Sunday  night  he  failed  to  hear  it.  With 
aggressive  opposition  Charlotte's  father  had  sometimes  pro- 
claimed, "  If  Barnabas  Thayer  can't  set  here  with  the  rest 
of  us,  he  can  go  home."  His  hard  and  at  times  almost 
savage  manner  was  loyally  interpreted  by  Mrs.  Barnard  to 
her  daughter  as  "your  father's  way."  As  Miss  Wilkins 
remarks,  "  Miss  Barnard  herself  had  spelt  out  her  husband 
like  a  hard  and  seemingly  cruel  text  in  the  Bible.  She 


46          Provincial  Types  in  New  England 

marveled  at  its  darkness  in  her  light,  but  she  believed  in  it 
reverently,  and  even  pugnaciously."  But  her  elder  sister 
Hannah  stood  in  no  particular  awe  of  her  brother-in-law, 
and  his  autocratic  whims  she  was  quick  to  characterize  in 
a  somewhat  pungent  style  :  "  His  way  !  Keepin'  you  all 
on  rye  meal  one  spell,  an'  not  lettin'  you  eat  a  mite  of 
Injun,  an'  then  keepin'  you  on  Injun  without  a  mite  of 
rye  !  Makin'  you  eat  nothin'  but  greens  an'  garden  stuff, 
an'  jest  turnin'  you  out  to  graze  an'  chew  your  cuds  like 
horned  animals  one  spell,  an'  then  makin'  you  live  on  meat  !  " 

Tragically  enough,  on  this  eventful  night  Cephas  Barnard 
and  his  prospective  son-in-law, — the  one  a  Whig  and  the 
other  a  Democrat,  —  fell  into  an  ugly  political  discussion, 
which  waxed  uglier,  until  in  his  sudden  rage  the  father 
ordered  Barnabas  from  the  house.  "  Get  out  of  this  house, 
an'  don't  you  ever  darse  darken  these  doors  again  while  the 
Lord  Almighty  reigns  ! "  Whereupon,  in  an  awful  voice, 
Barnabas  rejoined,  "  I  never  will,  by  the  Lord  Almighty  !  " 
and  slammed  the  door  behind  him.  That  quarrel  and  that 
vow,  in  the  grimly  ordered  village  tragedy  of  Miss  Wilkins, 
affected  the  life  of  a  whole  community.  Given  the  "  set " 
New  England  character  and  the  idolatry  of  self-will,  and 
some  very  tragic  consequences  may  result  from  seemingly 
trivial  causes. 

Against  her  father's  will  and  even  forcibly,  Charlotte 
pushed  out  into  the  night  calling  after  her  lover  to  come 
back,  but  with  characteristic  stubbornness  he  never  turned 
his  head ;  and  there  she  stood  alone,  finally  shouting  to  him 
imperiously,  "  If  you're  ever  coming  back,  you  come  now  !  " 
Locked  out  from  her  home  by  her  angry  father,  Charlotte 
sat  motionless  on  the  door-stone  till  her  Aunt  Sylvia's  appear- 
ance suggested  that  she  spend  the  night  with  her.  And  as 


"  Pembroke  "  47 

they  went  by,  all  unknown  to  them,  Barnabas  Thayer,  the 
maddened  lover,  watched  them  from  the  window  of  his  new 
house,  and  bewailed  the  hardness  of  his  fate,  which  he  inevi- 
tably connected  with  the  will  of  God.  "  '  What  have  I  done 
to  be  treated  in  this  way  ? '  he  demanded,  setting  his  face 
ahead  in  the  darkness ;  and  he  did  not  see  Cephas  Barnard's 
threatening  countenance,  but  another,  gigantic  with  its  vague 
outlines,  which  his  fancy  could  not  limit,  confronting  him 
with  terrible  negative  power  like  a  stone  image.  He  struck 
out  against  it,  and  the  blows  fell  back  on  his  own  heart." 

Involved  in  the  misery  of  Charlotte  and  Barnabas,  is  the 
sweet  and  lifelike  "  old  maid,"  Aunt  Sylvia  Crane,  who,  de- 
tained by  the  quarrel  of  Cephas  and  Barnabas,  had  missed  at 
her  own  home  the  regular  Sunday-night  call  of  Richard 
Alger,  her  quasi-lover  for  the  past  eighteen  years.  The 
previous  Sunday  night  he  had  come  so  perilously  near  to 
"  P°PPmg  tne  question  "  that  he  had  managed  to  move  over 
from  his  chair  to  the  haircloth  sofa  on  which  she  expectantly 
sat ;  he  had  actually  begun  a  sort  of  declaration  of  love  when 
the  clock  struck  ten  and  startled  him  into  a  sense  of  the  late- 
ness of  the  hour,  putting  a  sudden  end  to  his  long-delayed 
and  long-hoped-for  proposal.  And  so  through  the  following 
week  Sylvia  Crane  had  trembled  and  sighed  and  yearned  for 
the  next  Sunday  night,  when,  perhaps,  Richard  would  end 
his  long  wooing  and  add  the  crown  of  happiness  to  her 
patient  life.  But  alas  !  when  he  did  actually  come  he  found 
the  stone  which  the  Crane  family  from  time  immemorial 
had  rolled  before  the  front  door  in  their  absence  blocking 
the  way,  and  he  abruptly  returned  to  his  home.  That  night, 
while  her  niece,  Charlotte  Barnard,  lay  sobbing  upstairs  and 
muttering  to  herself,  "  Poor  Barney  !  Poor  Barney  !  "  her 
Aunt  Sylvia,  below,  kept  repeating  piteously :  "  Poor  Rich- 


48          Provincial  Types  in  New  England 

ard  !  Poor  Richard  !  "  And  the  next  morning,  after  a  long 
night  of  restless  grief,  the  old  maid  felt  that  the  disappoint- 
ment of  her  niece  was  as  nothing  in  comparison  with  the 
sorrow  of  her  own  maturity.  "  I  guess  she  ain't  had  any 
such  night  as  I  have.  Girls  don't  know  much  about  it." 
The  hopelessness  of  her  sorrow  took  the  surprising  form  of 
petulance  and  hostile  criticism,  and  the  naturally  sweet- 
tempered  woman  even  dared  to  strike  at  the  willful  eccentric- 
ities of  her  brother-in-law.  She  maintained  with  remarkable 
audacity  that  Barney  was  no  more  "  set  "  than  Cephas  ;  and 
when  her  sister  defended  her  husband,  with  the  remark, 
"  Cephas  ain't  set.  It's  jest  his  way,"  Sylvia  grew  strangely 
ironical :  "  Folks  had  better  been  created  without  ways, 
then.  .  .  .  They'd  been  enough  sight  happier  an'  better 
off,  and  so  would  other  folks  that  they  have  to  do  with,  than 
to  have  so  many  ways,  an'  not  sense  enough  to  manage 
them."  Sylvia  even  went  so  far  in  her  sudden  reaction 
against  fate  as  to  inveigh  against  the  doctrine  of  free  will, 
which  naturally  had  a  horrifying  effect  on  her  other  sister,  the 
strong-willed,  churchly,  and  dominating  Hannah  Berry. 
"  Sylvy  Crane,  you  ain't  goin'  to  deny  one  of  the  doctrines 
of  the  Church,  at  your  time  of  life?"  And  being  bravely 
answered  by  Sylvia  in  the  affirmative,  Mrs.  Berry  exclaimed  : 
"  Then  all  I've  got  to  say  is  you'd  ought  to  be  ashamed  of 
yourself.  Why,  I  should  think  you  was  crazy,  Sylvy  Crane, 
settin'  up  yourself  agin'  the  doctrines  of  the  Word." 

The  garrulous  and  outspoken  Hannah  was  not  lacking 
either  in  criticism  of  her  brother-in-law ;  but  his  wife  Sarah 
came  to  his  defense,  recalling  his  morning's  talk  on  food. 
"  He  said  this  mornin'  that  he  didn't  know  but  we  were 
eatin'  the  wrong  kind  of  food.  Lately  he's  had  an  idea  that 
mebbe  we'd  ought  to  eat  more  meat ;  he's  thought  it  was 


"  Pembroke  "  49 

more  strengthenin',  an'  we'd  ought  to  eat  things  as  near  like 
what  we  wanted  to  strengthen  as  could  be.  I've  made  a 
good  deal  of  bone  soup.  But  now  he  says  he  thinks  mebbe 
he's  been  mistaken,  an'  animal  food  kind  of  quickens  the 
animal  nature  in  us,  an'  that  we'd  better  eat  green  things 
an'  garden  sass."  To  which  the  sarcastic  Hannah,  with  a 
sniff,  retorted  :  "  I  guess  garden  sass  will  strengthen  the 
other  kind  of  sass  that  Cephas  Barnard  has  got  in  him,  full 
as  much  as  bone  soup  has."  When  later  Cephas  came  over 
and  marched  back,  with  his  wife  and  daughter  following 
close  behind,  Hannah  Berry's  parting  comment  was  :  "  Well, 
all  I've  got  to  say  is  I'm  thankful  I  ain't  got  a  man  like  that, 
an'  you  ought  to  be  mighty  thankful  you  ain't  got  any  man 
at  all,  Sylvy  Crane."  But  poor  Sylvia  could  hardly  agree. 

When,  at  home,  Charlotte  had  put  off  her  purple  gown, 
which  was  to  have  been  a  part  of  the  wedding  wardrobe, 
and  clad  in  a  common  dress,  descended  to  the  kitchen,  she 
found  her  mother  facing  her  father  with  unwonted  spirit. 
She  was  remonstrating  with  him  for  his  latest  whim,  —  he 
had  turned  vegetarian  with  such  a  vengeance  that  he  was  in- 
sisting on  sorrel  pies,  and  he  wanted  them  made  without  lard. 
His  wife  argued  the  impossibility  of  such  cookery,  although 
she  made  the  confession  that  "  Mebbe  the  sorrel,  if  it  had 
some  molasses  on  it  for  juice,  wouldn't  taste  very  bad." 
When  both  wife  and  daughter  leagued  against  him  in  the 
matter  of  such  pastry,  Cephas  came  out  of  the  pantry  carry- 
ing the  mixing-board  and  rolling-pin  "like  a  shield  and  a 
club,"  and  set  to  work  himself  with  characteristic  stubborn- 
ness. His  wife  softly  intimated  that  she  had  some  pumpkin 
that  would  make  good  pies,  but  the  perverse  vegetarian  said 
he  knew  that  pumpkin  pies  had  milk  in  them,  "  An'  I  tell 
you  I  ain't  goin'  to  have  anything  of  an  animal  nature  in 
E 


50          Provincial  Types  in  New  England 

'em."  To  his  wife's  observation  that  she  had  seen  horses 
"  terribly  ugly,  an'  they  don't  eat  a  mite  of  meat,"  Cephas 
crushingly  replied  :  "  Ain't  I  told  ye  once  horses  were  the 
exceptions.  There  has  to  be  exceptions.  If  there  wa'n't 
any  exceptions  there  couldn't  be  any  rule,  an'  there  bein' 
exceptions  shows  there  is  a  rule.  Women  can't  ever  get 
hold  of  things  straight.  Their  minds  slant  off  sideways,  the 
way  their  arms  do  when  they  fling  a  stone." 

In  the  midst  of  his  pie-making  that  she-Puritan,  Deborah 
Thayer,  abruptly  entered.  "She  moved,  a  stately,  high- 
hipped  figure,  her  severe  face  almost  concealed  in  a  scoop- 
ing, green,  barege  hood,  to  the  center  of  the  floor,  and  stood 
there  with  a  pose  that  might  have  answered  for  a  statue  of 
Judgment."  She  came  to  see  what  her  son  Barnabas,  the 
night  before,  had  done  that  Cephas  Barnard  should  order 
him  from  the  house  forever.  "  If  it's  anything  wrong,  I 
shall  be  jest  as  hard  on  him  as  the  Lord  for  it."  Charlotte's 
exclamation  that  Barney  had  done  nothing  wrong  was  simply 
ignored  by  his  mother,  who  fiercely  assailed  Cephas  for  the 
reason.  Cephas,  grimly  silent,  at  last  opened  his  mouth  as 
if  perforce,  declaring  that  they  "  got  to  talkin'  about  the 
'lection,"  and  that,  according  to  his  own  reasoning,  what 
they  ate  had  a  good  deal  to  do  with  it.  "  I  think  if  you'd 
kept  your  family  on  less  meat,  and  given  'em  more  garden- 
stuff  to  eat,  Barney  wouldn't  have  been  so  up  an'  comin'. 
It's  what  he's  eat  that's  made  him  what  he  is."  This  was 
too  much  for  the  logical  theories  of  Deborah  Thayer,  and 
she  gazed  at  Cephas  in  stern  amazement.  "  You're  tryin'  to 
make  out,  as  near  as  I  can  tell,  that  whatever  my  son  has  done 
wrong  is  due  to  what  he's  eat,  and  not  to  original  sin.  I 
knew  you  had  queer  ideas,  Cephas  Barnard,  but  I  didn't 
know  you  wa'n't  sound  in  your  faith." 


"Pembroke"  51 

Suddenly  Charlotte  leaped  up  in  fierce  resentment  against 
the  injustice  of  her  father,  and  in  loyal  defense  of  her  lover, 
laying  the  blame  for  the  quarrel  largely  on  the  former.  And 
as  Deborah  Thayer  retired,  after  discovering  the  sorrel  pies, 
she  remarked,  with  fierce  conscientiousness  :  "I'm  goin'  to 
try  to  make  my  son  do  his  duty.  I  don't  expect  he  will, 
but  I  shall  do  all  I  can,  tempers  or  no  tempers,  and  sorrel 
pies  or  no  sorrel  pies." 

Mrs.  Thayer's  daughter  Rebecca,  in  company  with  Rose 
Berry,  her  cousin,  —  after  the  latter's  somewhat  self-inter- 
ested effort  to  reconcile  Barney  and  Charlotte,  —  makes  a 
charming  picture  in  Silas  Berry's  great  country  store,  as  she 
stands  waiting  to  sell  her  basket  of  eggs,  her  face  blooming 
"  deeply  pink  in  the  green  tunnel  of  her  sunbonnet,"  her 
black  eyes  as  "  soft  and  wary  as  a  baby's,"  her  full  red  lips 
wearing  a  grave,  innocent  expression.  She  is  standing  be- 
fore her  lover,  Silas  Berry's  son  William,  who  is  ardently 
eager  to  give  her  a  generous  allowance  of  sugar  for  her  eggs, 
if  only  he  can  escape  the  watchful  supervision  of  his  penuri- 
ous father  in  the  rear  of  the  store.  The  old  man's  hard 
voice  sounds  out,  "You  ain't  offerin'  of  her  two  pound  of 
sugar  for  two  dozen  eggs  ?  "  And  when  the  son  replies  that 
it  was  two  and  a  half  pounds,  Silas  excitedly  cries  out,  "  Be 
you  gone  crazy?"  Despite  his  daughter's  petition  and  his 
son's  resolute  determination  to  give  the  modest  Rebecca  a 
full  exchange,  old  Silas  pulled  himself  up  "  a  joint  at  a  time," 
came  forward  at  a  stiff  halt,  and  said :  "  Sugar  is  fourteen 
cents  a  pound,  an'  eggs  is  fetchin'  ten  cents  a  dozen ;  you 
can  have  a  pound  and  a  half  of  sugar  for  them  eggs  if  you 
can  give  me  a  cent  to  boot."  Poor  Rebecca  colored,  and 
replied  that  she  hadn't  brought  her  purse,  whereupon  the 
old  man  enjoined  her  to  tell  her  mother  about  it  and  come 


52          Provincial  Types  in  New  England 

back  with  the  cent  by  and  by.  But  this  mean  bargaining 
was  too  much  for  the  young  lover,  William,  who  shouldered 
his  father  to  one  side  with  sudden  energy,  sternly  whispering 
to  him  to  "  leave  it  alone."  However,  the  old  man's 
chronic  "  closeness  "  reasserted  itself  in  the  expostulating 
remark :  "  I  ain't  goin'  to  stan'  by  an'  see  you  givin'  twice 
as  much  for  eggs  as  they're  worth,  'cause  it's  a  gal  you're 
tradin'  with.  That  wa'n't  never  my  way  of  doin'  business, 
an'  I  ain't  goin'  to  have  it  done  in  my  store."  William, 
with  steady  resolution,  recklessly  heaped  the  sugar  on  some 
paper,  and  laid  it  on  the  steelyards ;  the  old  man  pushed 
forward  and  bent  over  the  steelyards,  wrathfully  exclaiming, 
"  You've  weighed  out  nigh  three."  Suddenly  something  in 
the  son's  face  made  the  old  man  stop,  —  the  combination  of 
mental  and  superior  physical  force  in  the  son  dominated  the 
father.  "  His  son  towered  over  him  in  what  seemed  the 
might  of  his  own  lost  strength  and  youth,  brandishing  his 
own  old  weapons."  Yet  nature  reasserted  itself,  for  when 
William  had  put  the  sugar  in  Rebecca's  basket,  the  old  man 
began  counting  the  eggs,  only  to  find  that  "  there  ain't  but 
twenty-three  eggs  here."  Under  the  fierce  whisperings  of 
William,  however,  Silas  finally  subsided  into  sullen  mut- 
terings.  / 

Rebecca's  arrival  at  home  found  her  mother,  Deborah 
Thayer,  vigorously  making  cake,  looking  as  "  full  of  stern 
desperation  as  a  soldier  on  the  battlefield.  Deborah  never 
yielded  to  any  of  the  vicissitudes  of  life ;  she  met  them  in 
fair  fight  like  enemies,  and  vanquished  them,  not  with  trum- 
pet and  spear,  but  with  daily  duties.  It  was  a  village  story 
how  Deborah  Thayer  "  cleaned  all  the  windows  in  the  house 
one  afternoon  when  her  first  child  had  died  in  the  morning." 
She  was  now  making  cake  in  the  midst  of  her  bitter  misery 


"  Pembroke " 


53 


over  her  son's  quarrel  with  Cephas  Barnard  and  his  sweetheart 
Charlotte.  She  insisted  on  Rebecca's  staying  in  the  kitchen 
to  cream  the  butter  and  sugar,  and  she  already  had  her  younger 
and  somewhat  invalid  son,  Ephraim,  stoning  raisins.  Though 
forbidden  to  eat  any,  Ephraim  would  fill  his  mouth  when  his 
mother  turned  away  to  watch  Barney,  the  older  son,  at  work 
in  the  field.  Ephraim's  mouth  was  "  demure  with  mischief," 
and  his  "  gawky  figure  perpetually  uneasy  and  twisting,  as  if 
to  find  entrance  into  small  forbidden  places."  When  his 
mother  looked  suddenly  at  him  there  was  a  curious  expres- 
sion in  his  face  that  continually  led  his  mother  to  infer  that 
he  had  been  transgressing,  and  she  would  cry  out  sharply, 
"  What  have  you  been  doin',  Ephraim  ?  "  but  she  was  always 
routed  by  Ephraim's  "  innocent,  wondering  grin  in  response." 
At  the  end  of  his  raisin-stoning  he  plaintively  asked,  "  Can't 
I  have  just  one  raisin,  mother?"  "Yes,  you  may,  if  you 
ain't  eat  any  while  you  was  pickin'  of  'em  over."  Where- 
upon little  innocent  Ephraim  selected  a  large  fat  "  plum," 
and  ate  it  with  "  ostentatious  relish." 

As  his  mother  turned  to  go  out,  Ephraim  whiningly  asked 
if  he  couldn't  go  too.  "  There  were  times  when  the  spirit 
of  rebellion  in  him  made  illness  and  even  his  final  demise 
flash  before  his  eyes  like  sweet  overhanging  fruit,  since  they 
were  so  strenuously  forbidden."  Meeting  her  son  Barnabas, 
who  was  plowing  in  the  field,  Deborah  issued  her  ultima- 
tum, and  their  first  silent  glances  were  as  if  "  two  wills  clashed 
swords  in  advance."  "  I  ain't  never  goin'  to  say  anything 
more  to  you  about  it,"  referring  to  the  proposed  apology  to 
Cephas  Barnard,  "  but  there's  one  thing  —  you  needn't  come 
home  to  dinner.  You  sha'n't  ever  sit  down  to  a  meal  in  your 
father's  and  mother's  house  whilst  this  thing  goes  on."  And 
the  only  response  that  came  from  the  "  set "  Barnabas  was 


54          Provincial  Types  in  New  England 

"  G'lang  ! "  Caleb,  the  father,  also  pleaded  with  the  son, 
but  without  the  least  effect ;  and  as  he  sat  sobbing  under  the 
wild  cherry  tree,  —  his  face  in  his  old  red  handkerchief,  — 
Rebecca,  coming  out  to  feed  the  hens,  attempted  to  console 
him  with  the  remark,  "Barney'll  get  over  it."  To  which 
Caleb  despairingly  responded :  "  No,  he  won't ;  no,  he 
won't.  He's  jest  like  your  mother." 

One  of  the  delightful  and  relieving  pictures  in  "  Pembroke  " 
is  that  of  the  cherry  party  in  Silas  Berry's  orchard  —  where 
the  young  people  of  the  village  were  in  the  habit  of  picnick- 
ing, until  old  Silas's  greed  overreached  itself  and  some  college 
friends  of  'Squire  Payne's  son,  refusing  to  pay  the  exorbitant 
price,  went  by  singing  "  Who  lives  here  ?  "  with  the  mocking 
response,  "  Old  Silas  Berry,  who  charges  sixpence  for  a 
cherry."  The  comment  of  his  wife  on  the  impolicy  of  his 
greed,  —  "You're  jest  a-puttin'  your  own  eyes  out,  Silas 
Berry,"  —  proved  too  true  a  prophecy,  for  his  orchard  was 
regularly  boycotted  by  the  young  people  and  purchasers  gen- 
erally. This  season,  however,  the  old  man  seemed  afflicted 
with  spasmodic  generosity,  —  he  had  even  offered  Rose,  his 
daughter,  the  privilege  of  a  cherry  party  without  pay ;  whereat 
Rose  fairly  gasped.  "  The  vague  horror  of  the  unusual  stole 
over  her.  A  new  phase  of  her  father's  character  stood  be- 
tween her  and  all  her  old  memories  like  a  supernatural  pres- 
ence." As  she  said  to  her  mother,  she  was  dreadfully  afraid 
he  was  going  to  have  another  "  shock." 

In  making  the  plans  for  the  party  Rose  and  her  mother 
decided  to  include  all  the  available  young  people,  —  "  The 
Lord  only  knows  when  your  father'll  have  another  freak  like 
this.  I  guess  it's  like  an  eclipse  of  the  sun,  and  won't  come 
again  very  soon."  And  there  was  Charlotte  Barnard,  her 
"  smooth  hair  gleaming  in  the  sun,  her  neck  showing  pink 


"Pembroke"  55 

through  her  embroidered  lace  kerchief,"  apparently  not  see- 
ing her  old  lover,  Barnabas,  but  knowing  full  well  when  he 
came ;  and  Barney,  in  his  best  suit,  slender  and  handsome, 
with  a  stern  and  almost  martial  air,  standing  apart,  and  feel- 
ing a  fierce  sense  of  ownership  in  Charlotte,  whose  basket 
the  'Squire's  son  Thomas  was  filling  with  the  ripest  cherries 
from  the  top  of  the  tree.  But  Barney  yielded  to  the  charm 
of  Rose  Berry's  frank  and  winning  ways,  —  of  Rose,  who,  in 
the  heart  of  her  New  England,  and  bred  after  the  precepts 
of  orthodoxy,  was  yet  a  pagan,  and  "worshiped  Love 
himself."  "  Barney  was  simply  the  statue  that  represented 
the  divinity ;  another  might  have  done  as  well  had  the  sculp- 
ture been  as  fine." 

"  Copenhagen "  was  the  favorite  game  that  afternoon 
under  the  cherry  trees ;  and  as  the  young  people  clung  to 
the  swaying  rope,  looping  this  way  and  that  as  the  pursuers 
neared  them,  their  radiant  faces  "  had  the  likeness  of  one 
family  of  flowers,  through  their  one  expression."  The 
tossing  cherry  boughs  above  their  heads,  the  old  red  tavern 
wall  with  a  great  mass  of  blooming  phlox  against  it,  "  vague 
with  distance  like  a  purple  smoke,"  the  glistening  fence 
rails,  a  singing  bluebird,  —  these  were  all  unthought  of  by 
the  merrymakers,  and  only  one  note,  the  note  of  joyous 
love,  they  listened  to ;  even  Charlotte  and  Barney  felt 
the  old  touch  of  love's  exhilaration,  except  that  it  was  Rose 
and  not  Charlotte  that  Barney  kissed  so  fiercely,  for  at 
that  very  moment  the  handsome  face  of  Thomas  Payne,  his 
rival,  was  meeting  Charlotte's.  "The  girls'  cheeks  flushed 
deeper,  their  smooth  locks  became  roughened.  The  laughter 
waxed  louder  and  longer ;  the  matrons  looking  on  doubled 
their  broad  backs  with  responsive  merriment.  It  became 
like  a  little  bacchanalian  rout  in  a  New  England  field  on  a 


56          Provincial  Types  in  New  England 

summer  afternoon,  but  they  did  not  know  it  in  their  simple 
hearts." 

But  on  this  free-hearted  merriment  scowled  the  avaricious 
face  of  the  owner  of  the  cherry  trees,  Silas  Berry,  whose 
predominant  trait  seemed  to  "  mold  his  face  to  itself 
unchangeably,  as  the  face  of  a  hunting  dog  is  molded  to 
his  speed  and  watchfulness."  As  the  happy  party  were 
passing  homeward  they  had  confirmed  with  a  chorus  of 
assents  the  remark  of  Thomas  Payne  that  he  guessed  the 
old  man  wasn't  so  bad  after  all,  when  suddenly  Silas  himself 
advanced  toward  them,  drew  out  a  roll  of  paper,  and  handed 
it  to  Thomas  Payne.  At  Thomas's  inquiry  as  to  what  it 
was,  the  old  man's  face  lighted  up  with  the  ingenuous  smile 
of  a  child,  and  he  replied  in  a  wheedling  whisper,  "It's 
nothin'  but  the  bill  ...  for  the  cherries  you  eat.  I've 
always  been  in  the  habit  of  chargin'  more,  but  I've  took  off 
a  leetle  this  time."  Thomas  in  disgusted  surprise  crammed 
the  amount  of  the  bill  into  the  eagerly  outstretched  hand 
of  the  old  man,  but  before  the  party  had  reached  the  foot 
of  the  hill  the  running  feet  of  William  Berry,  the  old  man's 
son,  were  heard,  and  a  hoarse  voice  called  out  to  Thomas 
Payne  to  stop.  William  sternly  demanded  the  amount  the 
latter  had  paid  his  father  for  the  cherries,  and  paid  it  back 
with  trembling  fingers,  remarking  as  he  did  so,  "Take  it, 
for  God's  sake  !  " 

Despite  their  efforts  to  ease  his  chagrin  over  his  father's 
unparalleled  meanness,  William  Berry  broke  from  them 
and  "  pelted  up  the  hill  with  his  heart  so  bitterly  sore  that 
it  seemed  as  if  he  trod  on  it  at  every  step."  But  a  voice 
kept  crying  after  him,  there  was  "a  soft  flutter  of  girlish 
skirts,"  and  presently  the  hand  of  Rebecca  Thayer  touched 
his  arm.  It  was  the  touch  of  love  and  sympathy,  and 


"  Pembroke  " 


57 


William  blushed.  "  Don't  you  feel  bad  ;  don't  you  feel  bad. 
You  aren't  to  blame."  —  "  Isn't  he  my  father  ?"  —  "You  aren't 
to  blame  for  that."  —  "  Disgrace  comes  without  blame,"  said 
William  bitterly  as  he  moved  on.  But  protesting  her  desire 
to  be  with  him  and  to  sympathize  with  him,  Rebecca  raised 
both  her  arms  and  put  them  about  his  neck.  "  He  leaned 
his  cheek  down  against  her  soft  hair.  '  Poor  William,'  she 
whispered,  as  if  he  had  been  her  child  instead  of  her  lover." 
Yet  such  spontaneous  and  heroic  love  in  the  presence  of 
disgrace  and  public  ridicule  was  destined  to  melt  the  con- 
ventional bonds  of  virtue  and  bring  upon  itself  the  nemesis 
of  social  and  family  ostracism. 

Rebecca's  mother,  Deborah,  on  her  daughter's  return 
home,  cross-examined  her  as  to  her  lateness,  and  discover- 
ing something  of  the  real  situation  with  reference  to  William 
Berry,  pitilessly  ordered  Rebecca  to  give  up  all  thought  of 
marriage  with  him,  threatening,  in  fact,  to  disown  her  if  she 
married  against  her  parents'  wishes :  "  I  shan't  have  any 
child  but  Ephraim  left,  that's  all !  " 

Ephraim,  the  professional  boy  invalid,  whiningly  pleaded 
with  his  mother  to  know  what  Rebecca  had  done,  but  he 
was  suddenly  sent  to  the  pump  to  wash  his  face  and  hands ; 
and  as  soon  as  he  had  filled  himself  with  milk  toast  and 
been  denied  a  piece  of  pie,  he  was  sent  from  the  table  to 
begin  his  nightly  study  of  the  catechism.  Muttering  angrily 
under  his  breath,  Ephraim  got  the  catechism  out  of  the  top 
drawer  of  his  father's  desk  and  began  "  droning  out  in  his 
weak,  sulky  voice  the  first  question  therein,  'What  is  the 
chief  end  of  man  ?  ' "  He  had  been  nightly  drilled  for  the 
last  five  years  on  the  "Assembly's  Catechism,"  when  his 
general  health  admitted  —  "and  sometimes,  it  seemed  to 
Ephraim,  when  it  had  not  admitted."  In  fact,  his  mother, 


58          Provincial  Types  in  New  England 

fearing  a  sudden  death  for  her  youngest  son,  was  striving 
to  fit  him  for  a  higher  state  to  which  he  might  soon  be 
called.  And  so,  before  the  "Catechism,"  Ephraim  had 
been  driven  laboriously  through  the  whole  Bible,  chapter  by 
chapter.  His  mother  was  pitiless  in  this  regard,  and  with 
stern  pathos  she  would  say  to  his  protesting  and  sympathetic 
father :  "  If  he  can't  learn  nothin'  about  books,  he's  got  to 
learn  about  his  own  soul.  He's  got  to,  whether  it  hurts 
him  or  not." 

The  iron  insistence  of  Deborah  Thayer  that  her  daughter 
Rebecca  should  not  marry  William  Berry,  the  young  man 
of  her  choice,  had  resulted  in  the  daughter's  illustrating  her 
mother's  own  obstinacy  and  in  Rebecca's  going  secretly 
with  William  until  she  had  come  to  love  him  not  wisely  but 
too  well.  The  unfortunate  result  had  become  the  talk  of 
the  little  community,  —  especially  of  the  gossipmongers,  — 
but  as  yet  it  had  not  been  revealed  to  the  iron-willed  mother. 
She  had  indeed  noticed  a  peculiar  change  in  Rebecca,  — 
an  expression  in  her  face  that  was  foreign  to  it,  a  growing 
antipathy  to  society,  and  a  certain  air  of  misery  that  was 
inexplicable  even  to  the  penetrating  eyes  of  Deborah 
Thayer.  She  began  to  relent  toward  her  daughter,  to 
watch  over  her  with  a  sort  of  fierce  tenderness.  "  She 
brewed  great  bowls  of  domestic  medicines  from  nuts  and 
herbs,  and  made  her  drink  whether  she  would  or  not.  She 
sent  her  to  bed  early,  and  debarred  her  from  the  night  air." 
But  not  a  shadow  of  suspicion  ever  crossed  her  mind  that 
night  after  night  that  same  daughter  slipped  across  the 
north  parlor  and  out  the  front  door  into  the  darkness  to 
meet  her  forbidden  lover.  The  mother,  in  fact,  was 
secretly  dreaming  high  dreams  for  her  daughter's  matrimonial 
future ;  and  late  at  night,  after  Rebecca  had  gone  to  bed 


"  Pembroke  " 


59 


in  her  little  room  off  the  north  parlor,  the  sternly  ambitious 
mother  knitted  yard  after  yard  of  lace  that  should  properly 
furnish  forth  her  daughter  as  a  bride.  She  even  drove 
alone  on  a  windy  and  snowy  December  day  to  a  neighboring 
village  to  buy  material  for  a  new  dress  for  Rebecca.  It 
was  snowing  hard  as  she  returned,  and  her  green  veil  was 
white  as  she  entered  the  kitchen.  "  I  kept  the  dress  under 
the  buffalo-robe,  an'  that  ain't  hurt  any,"  she  vigorously 
remarked;  but  when,  after  proudly  shaking  out  the  folds 
of  the  gleaming  crimson  thibet,  she  got  no  answering  enthu- 
siasm from  her  daughter,  she  cried  out  sharply,  "  You  don't 
deserve  to  have  a  new  dress ;  you  act  like  a  stick  of  wood." 
The  next  morning  Deborah  worked  assiduously  at  cutting 
and  making  the  new  dress  for  Rebecca,  and  about  the  mid- 
dle of  the  forenoon  she  was  ready  to  try  it  on.  She  made 
Rebecca  stand  up  in  the  middle  of  the  kitchen  floor  and 
began  fitting  the  crimson  gown  to  her ;  when,  suddenly  rec- 
ognizing something  significant  in  Rebecca's  heavily  drooping 
form,  she  gave  a  great  start,  pushed  her  daughter  violently 
from  her,  and  stood  aloof,  looking  at  her,  while  the  clock 
ticked  in  the  dreadful  silence.  "  Look  at  me,"  said  Deb- 
orah. "  And  Rebecca  looked ;  it  was  like  uncovering  a 
disfigurement  or  a  sore."  The  truth  of  premature  passion 
was  out,  and  Rebecca's  eyes  and  soul  shrank  from  her  mother 
as  the  latter  cried,  "  Go  out  of  this  house."  And  Rebecca 
obeyed  without  a  sound.  Immediately  after  dinner  Deb- 
orah plodded  through  the  snow  to  her  son  Barney's,  and  in 
a  strange  voice  bade  him  go  after  William  Berry  and  make 
him  marry  Rebecca.  And  when  the  startled  Barney  inquired 
Rebecca's  whereabouts,  his  mother  harshly  retorted :  "  I 
don't  know  where  she  is.  I  turned  her  out  because  I 
wouldn't  have  her  in  the  house.  You  brought  it  all  on  us ; 


60          Provincial  Types  in  New  England 

if  you  hadn't  acted  so  I  shouldn't  have  felt  as  I  did  about 
her  marryin'.  Now  you  can  go  and  find  her,  and  get  Wil- 
liam Berry  an'  make  him  marry  her.  I  ain't  got  anything 
more  to  do  with  it." 

When  this  marriage  by  compulsion  was  accomplished  and 
Rebecca  was  established  in  the  old  Bennett  house  as  Mrs. 
William  Berry,  she  lived  with  curtains  down  and  doors  bolted. 
Never  a  neighbor  saw  her  face  at  door  or  window,  and  she 
would  not  go  to  the  door  if  anybody  knocked.  Even  to  her 
own  brother  Barney  she  was  not  at  home,  though  he  begged 
to  be  admitted,  and  declared  he  didn't  want  to  say  anything 
hard.  And  William  himself  was  scarcely  noticed  by  his  own 
father  and  mother,  —  such  was  the  unforgiving  hardness  of 
their  sense  of  disgrace  and  their  "  righteous  "  wrath ;  and  as 
for  his  mother's  going  to  see  her  son's  wife,  "  Hannah  Berry 
would  have  set  herself  up  in  a  pillory"  sooner  than  do  that. 
As  for  Rebecca's  mother,  Deborah  Thayer,  she  never  spoke 
of  her  daughter ;  and  when  Rebecca's  little  dead  child  went 
by  in  the  hearse,  Deborah  would  not  attend  the  funeral, 
though  Rebecca's  poor  old  father  did. 

Since  Rebecca's  forced  marriage  Ephraim,  her  sickly 
younger  brother,  had  had  a  sterner  experience  than  ever 
with  his  mother,  Deborah,  who  with  her  strenuous  Puritan 
soul  was  bent  on  fitting  her  invalid  boy  for  heaven.  Since 
all  her  vigorous  training  had  failed  in  the  case  of  his  sister, 
the  mother  redoubled  her  spiritual  discipline  over  her  last 
child  until  his  life  became  an  almost  intolerable  series  of 
restraints  and  duties.  On  account  of  his  chronic  illness  he 
was  shut  up  to  a  very  scanty  and  simple  diet,  —  no  cake,  no 
pie,  no  plum  from  a  pie  ;  and  he  now  had  daily  a  double 
stint  in  the  catechism.  One  brilliant  moonlight  night,  feel- 
ing a  little  better  as  he  lay  propped  up  with  pillows  in  his 


"Pembroke"  61 

bedroom,  and  feeling  also  the  irrepressible  boy  in  him, 
Ephraim  stole  out  of  the  house,  when  his  father  and  mother 
were  safely  asleep,  took  his  brother's  sled,  and  coasted  alone 
till  midnight,  having  the  one  playtime  of  his  life.  "  He  ig- 
nored his  feeble  and  laboring  breath  of  life.  He  trod  upon, 
he  outspeeded,  all  infirmities  of  the  flesh  in  his  wild  triumph 
of  the  spirit."  His  shouts  and  halloos  rang  out  as  he  shot 
down  the  hill ;  and  when  he  got  home  and  was  ready  for 
bed  once  more  this  invalid  boy  bethought  him  of  the  forbid- 
den mince  pie  in  the  pantry.  He  slid  as  "  noiseless  as  a 
shadow  in  the  moonlight  "  through  the  kitchen,  past  his  par- 
ents' door,  climbed  a  "  meal-bucket,"  reached  his  pie,  broke 
out  a  "great  jagged  half,"  and  back  on  the  edge  of  his  bed 
devoured  his  juicy  feast.  He  had  had  his  first  good  time. 
The  next  morning  he  was  actually  ill,  but  kept  it  from  his 
mother.  As  she  went  out  to  drive  to  a  neighboring  town 
for  sugar  and  tea,  which  she  refused  to  buy  of  her  son-in-law, 
she  left  word  with  Ephraim  to  tell  his  father  to  finish  paring 
the  apples  so  that  she  could  make  them  into  "  sauce  "  on  her 
return.  He  promised,  but  when  his  mother  got  out  of  sight 
he  forgot  his  promise  and  played  "  holly-gull  "  with  his  father. 
When  his  mother  discovered  on  her  return  that  Ephraim  had 
ignored  her  order  she  went  out  to  the  shed.  Meanwhile  the 
boy,  now  actually  very  ill,  seemed  to  have  lost  all  fear  of 
her ;  he  felt  very  strange  and  "  as  if  he  were  sinking  away 
from  it  all  through  deep  abysses."  Deborah  returned  with 
a  stout  stick,  and,  against  the  protests  of  her  husband,  led 
the  way  to  Ephraim's  bedroom.  The  boy  staggered  as  he 
went,  and  she  saw  how  ill  he  looked ;  but  she  could  not  this 
time  be  daunted  by  that  from  her  high  spiritual  purpose. 
"  Ephraim,"  said  his  mother,  "  I  have  spared  the  rod  with 
you  all  my  life  because  you  were  sick.  Your  brother  and 


62          Provincial  Types  in  New  England 

your  sister  have  both  rebelled  against  the  Lord  and  against 
me.  You  are  all  the  child  I've  got  left.  You've  got  to  mind 
me  and  do  right.  I  ain't  goin'  to  spare  you  any  longer  be- 
cause you  ain't  well.  It  is  better  you  should  be  sick  than 
be  well  and  wicked  and  disobedient.  It  is  better  that  your 
body  should  suffer  than  your  immortal  soul.  Stand  still." 
And  with  that  the  stick  descended,  the  boy  made  a  strange 
noise,  and  then  sank  in  a  heap  upon  the  floor.  All  of  Deb- 
orah Thayer's  mustard  and  hot  water,  all  of  her  remorseful 
agony  of  prayer,  had  no  effect  to  stir  once  more  the  life  in 
poor  little  Ephraim's  body.  Indeed,  she  prayed  all  night 
for  justification,  and  the  watchers  over  Ephraim's  dead  body 
looked  at  each  other  with  shocked  significance.  When  later 
it  became  known  to  Deborah  Thayer,  through  the  kind 
offices  of  the  doctor's  wife,  that  her  boy  had  indulged,  the 
night  before  his  death,  in  hours  of  coasting  and  in  mince-pie 
eating,  her  agonized  mind  was  somewhat  relieved ;  but  the 
recent  tragedy  of  her  life  and  the  sudden  shock  of  relief 
proved  too  much  for  this  fiercely  torn  soul,  driven  by  the 
nemesis  of  Puritan  conscience  and  her  own  implacable  will, 
and  she  sank  out  of  life  as  suddenly  as  the  son  whom  she 
had  punished  for  his  eternal  good. 

With  patient  sweetness  amid  a  secret  poverty  that  finally 
brought  her  "  on  the  town,"  Sylvia  Crane  had  waited  twenty 
years  for  Richard  Alger,  her  regular  Sunday-night  wooer; 
and  finally,  the  morning  following  the  wedding  of  her  niece, 
Rose  Berry,  Sylvia,  with  a  bundle  of  bedding,  a  chest,  and  a 
rocking-chair,  had  started  on  a  wood-sled  for  the  poorhouse, 
But,  strange  to  say,  as  they  passed  Richard  Alger' s  home, 
he  appeared  as  a  rescuer,  compelled  the  old  man  to  drive 
back  to  the  Crane  house,  and  there  made  a  contrite  confes- 
sion to  Sylvia,  who  in  all  her  own  poverty  and  blasted  hope 


"  Pembroke  "  63 

kept  a  heart  of  sympathy  and  pity  open  for  Richard.  "  I've 
been  meaner  than  sin,"  said  Richard,  "  an'  I  don't  know  as 
it  makes  it  any  better  because  I  couldn't  seem  to  help  it.  I 
didn't  forget  you  a  single  minute,  Sylvia,  an'  I  was  awful  sorry 
for  you,  an'  there  wasn't  a  Sabbath  night  that  I  didn't  want 
to  come  more  than  I  wanted  to  go  to  heaven.  But  I  couldn't. 
I  couldn't  nohow.  I've  always  had  to  travel  in  tracks,  an' 
no  man  livin'  knows  how  deep  a  track  he's  in  till  he  gets 
jolted  out  of  it  an'  can't  get  back.  But  I've  got  into  a 
track  now,  an'  I'll  die  before  I  get  out  of  it."  And  Sylvia's 
face  flushed  "  like  an  old  flower  revived  in  a  new  spring." 
He  married  her  one  Sunday  morning  at  the  minister's,  and 
then  together  they  went  to  "  meetin'," — although  Sylvia's 
sister,  Hannah  Berry,  was  for  having  a  public  wedding,  caus- 
tically observing  :  "  If  I'd  been  goin'  with  a  feller  as  long  as 
you  have  with  him,  I  wouldn't  get  cheated  out  of  a  weddin', 
anyhow.  I'd  have  a  weddin',  an'  I'd  have  cake,  an'  I'd  ask 
folks,  especially  after  what's  happened.  I'd  let  'em  see  I  wa'n't 
quite  so  far  gone,  if  I  had  set  out  for  the  poorhouse  once." 

And  ten  years  after  his  quarrel  with  Charlotte  Barnard 
and  her  father,  Barney  Thayer,  —  heroically  nursed  in  the 
face  of  public  opinion  by  the  loyal  Charlotte,  —  finally  was 
able  to  conquer  his  constitutional  "  setness,"  as  Richard 
Alger  had  done ;  and  resolutely  getting  up  from  his  sick  bed 
he  marched  laboriously  up  the  hill  to  the  Barnard  house  to 
announce  to  his  old  and  never  wavering  sweetheart  that  he 
had  at  last  "  come  back." 

By  such  unrelenting  characterization  as  this  has  the  author 
set  forth  in  "  Pembroke  "  the  story  of  a  New  England  com- 
munity whose  grim  rigidity  of  life  would  be  incredible  were 
it  not  confirmed  by  the  strong  and  subtle  art  of  so  realistic 
a  writer  as  Miss  Wilkins. 


CHAPTER   IV 

"DEEPHAVEN"    BY   SARAH   ORNE  JEWETT 

JUST  before  his  death  James  Russell  Lowell  wrote  to  Miss 
Jewett's  publishers  in  London  :  "  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  that 
Miss  Jewett's  delightful  stories  are  to  be  reprinted  in  Eng- 
land. Nothing  more  pleasingly  characteristic  of  rural  life 
in  New  England  has  been  written,  and  they  have  long  been 
valued  by  the  judicious  here."  And  the  world  of  "judicious  " 
American  readers  still  agrees  with  this  discriminating  judg- 
ment. The  daughter  of  "  A  Country  Doctor,"  Miss  Jewett 
had  all  the  advantages,  as  a  girl,  of  going  about  the  country 
with  her  father  on  his  visits  to  inland  farms  or  along  the 
seacoast ;  and  "  when  the  time  came  that  my  own  world  of 
imagination  was  more  real  to  me  than  any  other,  I  was  some- 
times perplexed  at  my  father's  directing  my  attention  to  cer- 
tain points  of  interest  in  the  characters  or  surroundings  of 
our  acquaintances.  I  cannot  help  believing  that  he  recog- 
nized, long  before  I  did  myself,  in  what  direction  the  current 
of  purpose  in  my  life  was  setting.  Now  as  I  write  my 
sketches  of  country  life,  I  remember  again  and  again  the 
wise  things  he  said,  and  the  sights  he  made  me  see." 

Such  peculiar  preparation  for  portraying  in  permanent 
literary  form  the  characteristics  of  certain  provincial  types  in 
New  England  life  bore  fruit  in  "  Deephaven,"  her  first  literary 
and  artistic  success.  The  fact,  too,  that  her  early  life  was 

64 


"  Deephaven  "  65 

spent  in  the  old  Maine  settlement  of  Berwick,  with  its  once 
flourishing  shipping  trade,  its  sailors  and  "  sea-tanned  cap- 
tains," and  that  her  own  grandfather  had  been  a  sea-cap- 
tain, gave  to  the  writing  of  such  a  collection  of  sketches  as 
"  Deephaven "  an  authoritative  and  natural  touch  that 
constitutes  much  of  their  charm  and  value.  To  all  these 
favorable  conditions  must  be  added  the  possession  by  Miss 
Jewett  of  a  literary  art  that  is  almost  classic  in  its  clearness 
and  grace,  its  vital  sympathy,  and  its  unaffected  sincerity. 
If,  as  she  herself  says,  "  the  distinction  of  modern  literature 
is  the  evocation  of  sympathy,"  and  if,  as  Plato  said,  the  best 
thing  that  can  be  done  for  the  people  of  a  state  is  to  make 
them  acquainted  with  one  another,  Miss  Jewett's  literary 
purpose  has  been  very  happily  accomplished. 

The  summer  that  Kate  Lancaster  spent  at  the  old  Bran- 
don house  in  Deephaven,  in  company  with  her  friend  who 
recounts  the  narrative,  was  indeed  a  summer  of  unique 
charm  and  delight  —  for  Deephaven  was  a  quaint  old  place 
with  high  rocks  and  woods  and  hills,  and  Brandon  house 
is  suggestive  of  that  fine  old  home  in  Berwick,  Maine,  built 
in  1750,  where  Miss  Jewett  herself  was  born.  Twelve  miles 
from  Deephaven  the  two  girls  left  the  railway  and  took 
passage  in  a  stage-coach,  with  only  one  passenger  besides 
themselves,  who  was  a  very  large,  thin,  weather-beaten 
woman  that  looked  tired,  lonesome,  and  good-natured. 
She  was  delighted  to  respond  to  the  remark  that  it  was 
very  dusty,  with  another  remark  to  the  effect  that  she 
should  think  everybody  was  sweeping,  and  that  she  always 
felt,  after  being  in  the  cars  awhile,  as  if  she  "had  been 
taken  all  to  pieces  and  left  in  the  different  places."  This 
genial  and  talkative  fellow-passenger,  Mrs.  Kew,  proved  to 
be  the  wife  of  the  keeper  of  the  Deephaven  light,  and  she 


66          Provincial  Types  in  New  England 

and  her  husband  were  destined  to  give  the  two  young  ladies 
some  very  unusual  diversions  during  the  summer. 

Upon  the  inquiry  as  to  whether  Mrs.  Kew  knew  the 
Brandon  house  in  Deephaven,  the  genial  soul  replied  that 
she  knew  it  as  well  as  the  meeting-house.  " '  He  '  wrote  me 
some  o'  Mrs.  Lancaster's  folks  were  going  to  take  the 
Brandon  house  this  summer,  an'  so  you  are  the  ones? 
It's  a  sightly  old  place ;  I  used  to  go  and  see  Miss  Kath- 
erine.  She  must  have  left  a  power  of  chinaware."  Mrs. 
Kew  also  told  how  she  herself  would  always  be  "  a  real  up- 
country  woman  "  if  she  lived  there  a  hundred  years.  "  The 
sea  doesn't  come  natural  to  me,  it  kind  of  worries  me, 
though  you  won't  find  a  happier  woman  than  I  be,  'long 
shore." 

As  the  stage  drove  up  to  the  old  Brandon  "  place,"  the 
young  ladies  noted  with  satisfaction  the  row  of  poplars  in 
front  of  the  great  white  house,  the  tall  lilacs,  the  crowds  of 
rose  bushes  still  in  bloom,  the  box  borders,  and  the  great 
elms  at  the  side  of  the  house  and  down  the  road.  And  the 
hall  door  stood  wide  open.  Within,  it  was  a  home  of  great 
possibilities,  —  four  large  rooms  on  the  lower  floor,  and  six 
above,  a  wide  hall  in  each  story,  and  a  "  fascinating  garret " 
over  the  whole,  where  were  many  mysterious  old  chests  and 
boxes,  in  one  of  which  the  girls  found  the  love-letters  of 
Kate's  grandmother.  The  rooms  all  had  elaborate  cornices, 
and  the  lower  hall  was  very  fine,  with  an  archway  dividing 
it,  and  all  kinds  of  panelings,  and  a  great  door  at  either 
end.  But  "  the  best  chamber  "  rather  inspired  dread.  It 
had  a  huge  curtained  bed,  and  the  paper  on  the  walls  had 
been  captured  in  a  French  prize  some  time  in  the  last  cen- 
tury, —  the  color  of  it  being  an  "  unearthly  pink  and  a  for- 
bidding maroon,  with  dim  white  spots,  which  gave  it  the 


"  Deephaven  "  67 

appearance  of  having  molded."  The  great  lounge  made 
the  girls  low-spirited,  after  hearing  that  Miss  Brandon  her- 
self didn't  like  it,  because  she  had  seen  so  many  of  her  rela- 
tives lie  there  dead.  There  were  fantastic  china  ornaments 
from  Bible  subjects  on  the  mantel,  and  the  only  picture  was 
one  of  the  Maid  of  Orleans,  tied  with  an  "  unnecessarily  strong 
rope  to  a  very  stout  stake."  The  west  parlor  downstairs 
proved  to  be  the  girls'  favorite  room,  with  its  great  fireplace 
framed  in  blue  and  white  Dutch  tiles  which  represented 
graphically  the  careers  of  the  good  and  the  bad  man.  The 
last  two  of  the  series  were  of  very  high  art,  —  a  great  coffin 
stood  in  the  foreground  of  each,  and  the  virtuous  man  was 
being  led  off  by  "  two  disagreeable-looking  angels,"  while 
the  wicked  one  was  hastening  from  an  "  indescribable  but 
unpleasant  assemblage  of  claws  and  horns  and  eyes  which  is 
rapidly  advancing  from  the  distance,  open-mouthed,  and 
bringing  a  chain  with  it." 

In  their  visits  to  Mrs.  Kew  and  the  lighthouse  Kate  and 
her  friend  were  particularly  interested  in  a  row  of  marks  on 
the  back  of  the  wide  "  fore  door,"  where  Mrs.  Kew  had 
tried  to  keep  account  one  summer  of  the  number  of  people 
who  innocently  inquired  about  the  depredations  of  the 
neighbors'  chickens ;  and  they  were  also  specially  interested 
in  Mrs.  Kew's  collection  of  "  relations  "  in  the  form  of  pho- 
tographs, and  in  her  critical  remarks  about  special  features 
in  the  faces.  "  That's  my  oldest  brother's  wife,  Clorinthy 
Adams  that  was.  She's  well-featured,  if  it  were  not  for  her 
nose,  and  that  looks  as  if  it  had  been  thrown  at  her,  and  she 
wasn't  particular  about  having  it  on  firm,  in  hopes  of  getting 
a  better  one.  She  sets  by  her  looks  though." 

Among  the  first  of  Deephaven  callers  on  the  two  girls 
from  Boston  was  a  prim  little  old  woman  by  the  name  of 


68          Provincial  Types  in  New  England 

Mrs.  Patton.  She  wore  a  neat  cap  and  "  front,"  but  no 
bonnet,  and  had  over  her  shoulders  a  little  three-cornered 
shawl.  She  was  very  short  and  straight  and  thin,  and 
"  darted  like  a  pickerel  "  when  she  moved  about.  She  im- 
pressed Kate's  friend  as  an  undoubtedly  capable  person  with 
"  faculty."  When  Kate  remarked  that  she  had  been  inquir- 
ing whether  Mrs.  Patton  was  still  in  Deephaven,  the  prim 
little  woman  excitedly  exclaimed  :  "  Land  o'  compassion  ! 
Where'd  ye  s'pose  I'd  be,  dear?  I  ain't  like  to  move  away 
from  Deephaven  now,  after  I've  held  by  the  place  so  long 
I've  got  as  many  roots  as  the  big  ellum." 

The  care-taking  Mrs.  Patton  hoped  that  Kate  and  her 
friend  had  found  the  house  in  "  middling  order,"  for  "  me 
and  Mis'  Dockum  have  done  the  best  we  knew,  —  opened 
the  windows  and  let  in  the  air  and  tried  to  keep  it  from  get- 
ting damp.  I  fixed  all  the  woolens  with  fresh  camphire  and 
tobacco  the  last  o'  the  winter ;  you  have  to  be  dreadful  care- 
ful in  one  o'  these  old  houses,  less  every  thing  gets  creaking 
with  moths  in  no  time.  ...  I  set  a  trap  there,  but  it  was 
older'n  the  ten  commandments,  that  trap  was,  and  the 
spring's  rusty.  ...  I  see  your  aunt's  cat  setting  out  on  the 
front  steps.  She  never  was  no  great  of  a  mouser,  but  it  went 
to  my  heart  to  see  how  pleased  she  looks  !  Come  right 
back,  didn't  she?"  She  continued  in  a  reminiscent  strain 
of  pleased  garrulity,  recalling  the  funeral  of  Kate's  aunt, 
Miss  Brandon,  and  pronouncing  this  unqualified  eulogy : 
"  She  was  a  good  Christian  woman,  Miss  Katherine  was. 
'  The  memory  of  the  just  is  blessed ' ;  that's  what  Mr. 
Lorimer  said  in  his  sermon  the  Sunday  after  she  died,  and 
there  wasn't  a  blood  relation  there  to  hear  it."  So  spoke 
in  grateful  stream  the  "  Widow  Jim  "  (to  distinguish  her  from 
the  widow  of  Jack  Patton),  who  was  a  distinctly  useful  per- 


"  Deephaven  "  69 

sonage  in  the  community  of  Deephaven.  She  made  elab- 
orate rugs  and  carpets,  she  "  cleaned  house  "  at  the  Carews' 
and  Lorimers',  she  had  no  equal  in  sickness  and  could  brew 
every  old-fashioned  dose  and  every  variety  of  herb  tea,  and 
she  often  served  her  patient  after  death  by  being  commander- 
in-chief  at  her  funeral,  —  even  to  the  making  out  of  the 
order  of  the  procession,  since  she  had  all  the  local  genealogy 
and  relationship  at  her  tongue's  end.  In  fact,  a  mistake  in 
precedence  at  a  funeral  was  counted  an  awful  thing  in  Deep- 
haven  ;  and  the  young  ladies  once  chanced  to  hear  some 
bitter  remarks  because  the  cousins  of  the  departed  wife  had 
been  placed  after  the  husband's  relatives,  —  "the  blood 
relations  ridin'  behind  them  that  was  only  kin  by  marriage  !  " 
The  good  opinion  in  which  Mrs.  Patton  was  held  in  the 
community  was  generously  reflected  by  Mrs.  Dockum,  as 
the  young  ladies  were  returning  from  the  post-office  after 
their  call  on  the  Widow  Jim.  "Willin'  woman,"  said  Mrs. 
Dockum,  "  always  been  respected ;  got  an  uncommon 
facility  o'  speech.  .  .  .  Dreadful  tough  time  of  it  with 
her  husband,  shifless  and  drunk  all  his  time,"  continued 
Mrs.  Dockum,  in  the  pleasure  of  painful  reminiscence. 
"  Noticed  that  dent  in  the  side  of  her  forehead,  I  s'pose  ? 
That's  where  he  liked  to  have  killed  her;  slung  a  stone 
bottle  at  her."  At  the  exclamation  of  shocked  interest  on 
the  part  of  the  young  ladies,  Mrs.  Dockum  considerately 
went  into  details  :  "  She  don't  like  to  have  it  inquired  about ; 
but  she  and  I  were  sitting  up  with  'Manda  Darner  one  night, 
and  she  gave  me  the  particulars.  .  .  .  Had  sliced  cucum- 
bers for  breakfast  that  morning  ;  he  was  very  partial  to  them, 
and  he  wanted  some  vinegar.  Happened  to  be  two  bottles 
in  the  cellar-way;  were  just  alike,  and  one  of  'em  was 
vinegar  and  the  other  had  sperrit  in  it  at  haying-time.  He 


jo         Provincial  Types  in  New  England 

takes  up  the  wrong  one  and  pours  on  quick,  and  out  come 
the  hayseed  and  flies,  and  he  give  the  bottle  a  sling  and  it 
hit  her  there  where  you  see  the  scar ;  might  put  the  end  of 
your  finger  into  the  dent.  He  said  he  meant  to  break 
the  bottle  ag'in  the  door,  but  it  went  slantwise,  sort  of.  ... 
He  died  in  debt;  drank  like  a  fish."  And  then  Mrs. 
Dockum  rounded  her  story  with  a  concise  eulogy  of  the 
widow  :  "  Yes,  'twas  a  shame,  nice  woman ;  good  consistent 
church  member ;  always  been  respected ;  useful  among  the 
sick." 

Among  the  most  interesting  types  in  Deephaven  society 
were  the  ancient  mariners  who  sunned  themselves  like 
turtles  every  pleasant  summer  morning  on  the  wharves. 
They  were  known  by  etiquette  as  "  captains,"  though  the 
author  is  inclined  to  believe  that  some  of  them  took  their 
title  by  brevet  upon  arriving  at  the  proper  age.  They  used 
to  sit  close  together  because  so  many  of  them  were  deaf, 
and  their  reminiscences  ran  upon  the  voyage  of  the  Sea 
Duck  or  the  wanderings  of  the  Ocean  Rover.  The  captains 
used  occasionally  to  get  into  violent  altercations  over  the 
tonnage  of  some  craft;  they  pulled  away  at  little  black 
pipes,  consuming  tobacco  in  fabulous  quantities  ;  and,  need- 
less to  say,  much  of  their  attention  was  given  to  the  weather. 
The  appearance  of  an  outsider  was  wont  to  cause  a  "  dis- 
approving silence";  but  the  girls  were  once  bold  enough 
to  overhear  from  behind  the  corner  of  the  warehouse  the 
oldest  and  wisest  of  them  all,  Captain  Isaac  Horn,  who  was 
evidently  giving  one  of  his  favorite  stories,  about  some  cloth 
he  had  once  purchased  in  Bristol,  which  the  shopkeeper 
delayed  sending  till  just  as  they  were  ready  to  sail. 

"  I  happened  to  take  a  look  at  that  cloth,"  droned  the  cap- 
tain in  a  loud  voice,  "  and  as  quick  as  I  got  sight  of  it,  I  spoke 


Copyright  1893,  by  Houghton,  Mi.ffliti  &  Co. 

THE  OLD  CAPTAINS. 

From"  Deephaven," by  Sarah Orne  Jewett.  By  permission  of  Houghton,  Mifflin&Co. 


"Deephaven"  71 

onpleasant  of  that  swindling  English  fellow,  and  the  crew, 
they  stood  back.  I  was  dreadful  high-tempered  in  them  days, 
mind  ye ;  and  I  had  the  gig  manned.  We  was  out  in  the 
stream,  just  ready  to  sail.  'Twas  no  use  waiting  any  longer 
for  the  wind  to  change,  and  we  was  going  north-about.  I 
went  ashore,  and  when  I  walks  into  his  shop  ye  never  see  a 
rreatur'  so  wilted.  Ye  see  the  miser'ble  sculpin  thought  I'd 
never  stop  to  open  the  goods,  an'  it  was  a  chance  I  did, 
mind  ye  !  '  Lor,'  says  he,  grinning  and  turning  the  color  of 
a  biled  lobster,  '  I  s'posed  ye  were  a  standing  out  to  sea  by 
this  time.'  '  No,'  says  I, '  and  I've  got  my  men  out  here  on 
the  quay  a  landing  that  cloth  o'  yourn,  and  if  you  don't  send 
just  what  I  bought  and  paid  for  down  there  to  go  back  in 
the  gig  within  fifteen  minutes,  I'll  take  ye  by  the  collar  and 
drop  ye  into  the  dock.'  I  was  twice  the  size  of  him,  mind 
ye,  and  master  strong.  '  Don't  ye  like  it  ? '  says  he,  edging 
round ;  '  I'll  change  it  for  ye,  then.'  Ter'ble  perlite  he 
was.  '  Like  it  ?  '  says  I,  '  it  looks  as  if  it  were  built  of  dog's 
hair  and  divil's  wool,  kicked  together  by  spiders ;  and  it's 
coarser  than  Irish  frieze;  three  threads  to  an  armful,' 
says  I." 

And  there  was  Captain  Lant,  who  knew  all  the  local  family 
history  and  how  to  bring  the  conversation  around  to  a  point 
where  he  could  work  in  one  of  his  pet  stories,  —  the  one  he 
told  with  special  relish,  and  with  the  solemn  declaration  that 
it  was  true,  being  a  strange  story  of  telepathy,  which  Miss 
Jewett  gives  in  the  captain's  quaint  and  vivid  language  and 
with  all  his  love  of  detail.  The  last  letter  received  from  the 
old  captain  by  the  young  ladies  on  their  return  to  Boston 
was  headed  with  the  latitude  and  longitude  of  Deephaven, 
and  was  signed,  "Respectfully  yours  with  esteem,  Jacob 
Lant  (condemned  as  unseaworthy)." 


J2          Provincial  Types  in  New  England 

One  of  the  fishermen  whom  Kate  and  her  friend  knew 
least  of  all  was  an  odd-looking,  silent  sort  of  man,  more  sun- 
burnt and  weather-beaten  than  any  of  the  others.  He  was 
locally  known  as  "  Danny,"  and  one  morning,  finding  him  at 
work  cleaning  fish  in  a  shed,  Kate's  friend  ventured  the 
judgment  that  she  thought  mackerel  were  the  prettiest  fish 
that  swim.  "  So  do  I,  miss,  not  to  say  but  I've  seen  more 
fancy-looking  fish  down  in  Southern  waters,  bright  as  any 
flower  you  ever  see ;  but  a  mackerel,"  holding  up  one 
admiringly,  "  why,  they're  so  clean-built  and  trig-looking  ! 
Put  a  cod  alongside,  and  he  looks  as  lumbering  as  an  old- 
fashioned  Dutch  brig  aside  a  yacht."  And  tossing  some 
fish  heads  to  the  cats  that  suddenly  walked  in  as  if  they  felt 
at  home,  he  was  reminded  of  a  good  cat  story,  which  he 
proceeded  to  tell.  At  the  conclusion  of  his  narrative,  when 
he  expressed  his  preference  for  haddock  over  cod,  and 
Kate  asked  whether  it  was  cod  or  haddock  that  had  a  black 
stripe  along  their  sides,  Kate's  friend  cried  out  with  superior 
knowledge,  "  Oh,  those  are  haddock ;  they  say  that  the 
Devil  caught  a  haddock  once,  and  it  slipped  through  his 
fingers  and  got  scorched ;  so  all  the  haddock  had  the  same 
mark  afterward."  Whereat  Danny,  smiling  at  her  peculiar 
lore,  remarked  wisely,  "  Ye  mustn't  believe  all  the  old 
stories  ye  hear,  mind  ye  !  " 

There  was  also  the  prominent  but  somewhat  visionary 
Captain  Sands,  who  had  a  sort  of  marine  museum  in  an 
old  warehouse  and  was  "  a  great  hand  for  keeping  things." 
He  took  the  young  ladies  out  to  Black  Rock  to  fish  for 
cunners,  and  on  the  way  gave  them  some  of  his  judgments 
on  the  weather,  observing  that  his  "gran'ther"  used  to  say 
that  "  a  growing  moon  chaws  up  the  clouds."  "Some  folks 
lay  all  the  weather  to  the  moon,  accordin'  to  where  she 


"  Deephaven  "  73 

quarters,  and  when  she's  in  perigee  we're  going  to  have 
this  kind  of  weather,  and  when  she's  in  apogee  she's  got 
to  do  so  and  so  for  sartain ;  but  gran'ther  he  used  to  laugh 
at  all  them  things.  .  .  .  Well,  he  did  use  to  depend  on 
the  moon  some;  everybody  knows  we  aren't  so  likely  to 
have  foul  weather  in  a  growing  moon  as  we  be  when  she's 
waning.  But  some  folks  I  could  name,  they  can't  do  noth- 
ing without  having  the  moon's  opinion  on  it." 

Deephaven  had  as  peculiar  types,  also,  old  Mrs.  Bonny 
and  Miss  Sally  Chauncey  —  the  former,  to  whom  the  minister 
took  the  young  ladies  for  a  call,  living  a  few  miles  from  the 
town  in  company  with  a  little  black  horse,  a  yellow-and- 
white  dog,  and  a  flock  of  hens ;  and  the  latter  remaining 
alone  in  her  ruined  home  and  imagining  in  her  harmless 
insanity  that  she  was  still  part  of  the  social  aristocracy 
to  which  she  formerly  belonged.  Mrs.  Bonny's  costume 
was  somewhat  masculine  in  its  make-up,  as  she  wore  a 
man's  coat,  cut  off  so  that  it  made  an  odd  short  jacket,  and 
a  pair  of  men's  boots.  She  had,  besides,  short  skirts,  and 
two  or  three  aprons,  the  inner  one  being  a  dress-apron 
and  the  outer  ones  being  thrown  aside  on  the  entrance  of 
the  visitors.  A  tight  cap  with  strings  completed  her  cos- 
tume. Behind  the  stove  in  the  kitchen  a  sick  turkey  was 
being  nursed,  while  the  flock  of  hens  was  remorselessly 
hustled  out  with  a  hemlock  broom,  since  callers  were 
present. 

In  the  conversation  that  ensued  with  the  eccentric  widow, 
the  minister's  reminder  that  Parson  Reid  preached  the  fol- 
lowing Sunday  in  the  neighboring  schoolhouse  recalled  to 
Mrs.  Bonny  old  Parson  Padelford.  "  He'd  get  worked  up, 
and  he'd  shut  up  the  Bible  and  preach  the  hair  off  your 
head,  'long  at  the  end  of  the  sermon."  And  she  also 


74         Provincial  Types  in  New  England 

described  to  them  with  much  relish  a  recent  revival  where 
she  found  one  of  her  uncertain  neighbors  praying,  —  old 
Ben  Patey,  —  "he  always  lays  out  to  get  converted,  and 
he  kep'  it  up  diligent  till  I  couldn't  stand  it  no  longer; 
and  by  and  by  says  he,  '  I've  been  a  wanderer ' ;  and  I  up 
and  says,  'Yes,  you  have,  I'll  back  ye  up  on  that,  Ben; 
ye've  wandered  around  my  wood  lot  and  spoilt  half  the 
likely  young  oaks  and  ashes  I've  got,  a-stealing  your  basket 
stuff.'  And  the  folks  laughed  out  loud,  and  up  he  got  and 
cleared.  He's  an  awful  old  thief,  and  he's  no  idea  of  being 
anything  else.  I  wa'n't  a-goin'  to  set  there  and  hear  him 
makin'  b'lieve  to  the  Lord." 

Like  Miss  Sally  Chauncey  there  were  many  in  Deephaven 
who  imagined  they  were  still  in  the  circle  of  the  privileged 
class,  and  who  had  distinct  pity  for  people  who  were  obliged 
to  live  in  other  parts  of  the  world.  As  Miss  Honora  Carew 
loftily  remarked,  the  tone  of  Deephaven  society  had  always 
been  very  high,  and  it  was  very  nice  that  there  had  never 
been  any  manufacturing  element  introduced,  —  any  dis- 
agreeable foreign  population.  Truly  a  delightful  old  sea- 
port is  Deephaven,  even  if  it  is  such  only  in  name,  —  for 
Sarah  Orne  Jewett  once  dropped  anchor  there. 


PROVINCIAL  TYPES  IN  THE  SOUTH 
CHAPTER  V 

A  BRIEF   SURVEY  OF  THE   FIELD 

SINCE  the  Civil  War  the  "  New  South  "  has  made  a  remarkable 
record  in  creative  literature,  and  among  its  truest  and  most 
sympathetic  and  artistic  interpreters  few  have  so  high  a 
rank  as  Thomas  Nelson  Page.  Such  books  as  "  The  Burial 
of  the  Guns,"  "  Elsket,"  "The  Old  Gentleman  of  the  Black 
Stock,"  and  "  Red  Rock  "  give  with  close  insight  and  un- 
failing charm  phases  of  Southern  life  that  have  passed,  or 
are  passing,  away ;  while  "  In  Ole  Virginia,"  Mr.  Page's 
best-known  collection  of  short  stories,  has  become  almost 
a  classic  in  its  presentation,  through  the  negro  dialect,  of  the 
humor  and  moving  pathos,  the  hospitality  and  grace  and 
heroic  chivalry,  associated  with  the  best  Southern  types. 
Whether  we  see  the  breaking  tragedy  of  war  and  love  when 
Miss  Anne  kisses  the  dead  face  of"  Marse  Chan,"  or  whether 
we  hear  the  loyal  old  negro,  —  when  the  minister  asks 
who  gives  "  Meh  Lady"  to  the  Northern  "Cun'l,"  —  re- 
spond proudly  and  protectingly,  "  Ole  Billy,"  we  know  we 
are  in  the  presence  of  brave,  strong,  beautiful  life  that  was 
the  finest  fruitage  of  the  Old  South. 

Few  more  likable  darkies  have  been  created  than  F. 
Hopkinson  Smith's  Nebuchadnezzar  —  or  "  Chad  "  for  short, 
—  found  in  "  Colonel  Carter  of  Cartersville."  As  a  delightfully 

75 


76  Provincial  Types  in  the  South 

humorous  and  sympathetic  characterization  of  certain  Vir- 
ginia types  the  book  goes  naturally  with  the  literature  of  the 
South ;  and  while  much  of  it  is  in  the  nature  of  an  extrava- 
ganza, the  figure  and  face  of  the  inimitable  Colonel  Carter 
will  long  remain  the  index  of  an  irresistible  personality  in 
American  fiction.  Whether  he  is  royally  presiding  at  dinner 
with  the  Major  and  Fitz,  or  financing  in  his  imagination 
"  The  Cartersville  and  Warrentown  Air  Line  Railroad " 
which  is  to  furnish  "  the  garden  spot  of  Virginia  "  an  outlet 
to  the  sea,  or  preparing  in  dead  earnest  for  "  the  field  of 
honah,"  or  gallantly  filling  his  glass  to  "  that  greatest  of  all 
blessings  —  a  true  Southern  lady,"  —  he  is  a  refreshing  and 
alluring  type  of  Southern  humanity  developed  by  the  "  old 
school."  And  then  there  is  Miss  Nancy  with  her  subtle 
generosity  and  her  rustling  silk  and  her  perfume  of  sweet 
lavender;  and  the  pugnacious  Major  Yancey,  late  of  the 
Confederate  army,  with  his  affinity  for  mint  julep ;  and  his 
impressive  but  bibulous  friend,  the  Honorable  I.  B.  Kerfoot, 
presiding  "jedge"  of  the  district  court  of  Fairfax  County, 
Virginia. 

The  Georgia  negro  and  "  cracker "  have  been  peculiarly 
fortunate  in  having  as  an  interpreter  Joel  Chandler  Harris, 
whose  "  Free  Joe  "  and  "  Mingo  "  have  had  so  wide  a  read- 
ing. As  Mr.  Howells  suggests,  Mr.  Harris's  work  as  a 
student  of  white  character  (albeit  of  low  life)  has  not  been 
fully  recognized,  by  reason  of  the  remarkable  popularity  of 
"  Uncle  Remus "  and  his  absorbing  animal  stories.  Yet 
"  At  Teague  Poteet's "  presents  with  subtle  humor  and 
dramatic  sense  the  unique  and  adventurous  life  of  the 
"  moonshining "  mountaineers,  with  its  rough  but  loyal 
camaraderie,  its  sudden  raids  by  revenue  officers,  its  des- 
perate daring,  and  its  instinctive  hospitality.  Hog  Moun- 


A  Brief  Survey  of  the  Field  77 

tain  had  its  Teague  Poteet,  with  his  little  fifty-acre  farm 
overlooking  Gullettsville,  and  it  had  its  wild  flowers,  chief 
of  which  was  Sis  Poteet,  daughter  of  Puss  Poteet ;  and  the 
time  came  when  Sis  must  needs  be  educated  in  the  academy 
at  Gullettsville.  Whereat  Sis  protested  because  she  had  no 
"  cloze."  Teague,  her  father,  tramping  skyward  for  game, 
came  suddenly  upon  the  cap  and  worm  of  a  disused  whisky 
still,  and  saw  the  clothes  problem  solved.  Whisky  educated 
Sis  Poteet;  and  in  time  a  deputy  marshal,  Woodward  by 
name,  fell  in  love  with  her  (who  could  help  it?)  ;  her  neigh- 
bors, Mrs.  Hightower  and  Mrs.  Parmalee,  gave  their  un- 
stinted approval ;  and  when  Sis  and  "  Cap  "  were  married, 
everybody  on  Hog  Mountain  sent  a  contribution,  and  even 
Uncle  Jake  Norris  set  a  "jug  er  licker,"  that  had  actually 
been  "  stomped  by  the  govunment,"  behind  Teague's  stable 
door  for  the  necessary  refreshment  of  the  wedding  guests. 
Teague  and  Uncle  Jake  and  Sis  are  strongly  individualized, 
and  the  unconventional  charm  of  the  mountain  girl  is  an 
alluring  element  in  the  story. 

Mr.  Harris's  most  distinct  contribution  to  American 
fiction,  however,  is  of  course  the  legends  of  old  plantation 
life  as  told  in  the  unconsciously  droll  dialect  of  "Uncle 
Remus,"  that  white-haired  old  philosopher  who  is  the  uni- 
versal authority  on  "  Brer  Rabbit,"  "  Brer  Wolf,"  "  Mr.  Pos- 
sum," and  "  Brer  Fox,"  and  all  their  little  stratagems  and 
wiles.  One's  imagination  can  always  see  the  spectacled  old 
darky,  pegging  at  his  coarse  shoes  or  making  horse-collars 
out  of  "  wahoo  "  bark,  while  the  large-eyed  "  little  boy  "  sits 
close  ana  watches  his  authoritative  face  for  fear  of  losing  a 
word  about  how  Brer  Rabbit  outwitted  Brer  Fox,  or  how,  for 
once,  through  the  inimitable  "Tar- Baby,"  Brer  Fox  proved 
too  much  for  the  redoubtable  rabbit,  or  about  the  "  awful 


7 8  Provincial  Types  in  the  South 

fate  of  Mr.  Wolf"  when  Brer  Rabbit  cured  him  of  fleas 
by  scalding  him  to  death  in  the  big  chest.  How  Mr. 
Rabbit  finds  his  match  at  last  in  the  subtlety  of  Brer  Terra- 
pin, who  beats  him  in  the  race  and  takes  the  money,  much 
to  the  enjoyment  of  "  Miss  Meadows  en  de  gals,"  and  how 
Brer  Fox,  in  his  envious  pursuit  of  Mr.  Rabbit,  who  was 
"  fishin'  fer  suckers  "  at  the  bottom  of  a  well,  went  down  in 
one  bucket  as  Brer  Rabbit  came  up  in  the  other,  singing 
philosophically, 

"  Good-by,  Brer  Fox,  take  keer  yo'  cloze, 
Fer  dis  is  de  way  de  worril  goes ; 
Some  goes  up  en  some  goes  down, 
You'll  git  ter  de  bottom  all  safe  en  soun',"  — 

how  all  this  happened  with  such  beautiful  inconsistency  no 
one  but  Joel  Chandler  Harris  can  tell  us. 

He  has  touched  in  so  many  delightful  phases  the  old 
negro's  sublime  credulity,  unconscious  drollery,  fellow-sym- 
pathy with  the  more  helpless  of  the  animals,  and  tender  love 
of  the  "little  boy,"  that  it  is  difficult  to  decide  whether 
"  Uncle  Remus  and  his  Friends,"  or  "  Nights  with  Uncle 
Remus,"  or  "Uncle  Remus;  His  Songs  and  Sayings" 
should  take  precedence.  But  since  Mr.  Frost  has  illustrated 
the  last-mentioned  volume  with  more  than  a  hundred  draw- 
ings, some  of  which  are  a  perfect  embodiment  of  the  spirit 
of  the  text,  one  is  inclined  to  give  his  first  choice  to  this 
particular  collection  of  legends.  Mr.  Harris  himself  says,  in 
his  dedication  of  the  book  to  Mr.  Frost,  "The  book  was 
mine,  but  now  you  have  made  it  yours,  both  sap  and  pith." 
And  to  one  who  has  delighted  in  the  inimitable  illustrations 
of  the  book  the  praise  of  Mr.  Frost  is  not  unmerited. 

Dividing  in  a  way  the  attention  of  the  literary  world  to 


A  Brief  Survey  of  the  Field  79 

Southern  fiction,  Mr.  George  W.  Cable  stands  with  Mr. 
Harris,  —  though  in  so  distinct  a  field  that  the  question  of 
which  is  the  greater  is  neither  important  nor  perhaps  possi- 
ble. Even  if  Mr.  Cable's  shorter  Creole  stories  are  said  in 
the  judgment  of  some  critics  to  have  had  their  day  (and  a 
very  bright  one  it  was),  it  is  hard  to  conceive  when  the 
delicate  charm  and  trembling  devotion  of  "  Madame  Del- 
phine  "  will  cease  to  touch  the  imagination  and  sympathy; 
or  the  rich  humanity  of  Pere  Jerome,  or  the  mysterious  per- 
sonality of  Monsieur  Vignevielle  (alias  Capitaine  Lemaitre, 
the  pirate),  or  the  vision  of  white  loveliness  he  stole  that 
memorable  night  when  the  moon  shone  and  the  mocking- 
bird broke  into  song,  or  the  prostrate  figure  of  the  dead 
mother  at  the  confessional,  —  the  quadroon  mother  who 
sinned  for  her  daughter's  happiness.  Nor  can  one  easily 
forget  how  under  the  enthusiastic  eye  of  "  Bonaventure  " 
the  children  rang  the  bell  for  "light,  libbuty,  and  education"  ; 
or  the  impressive  visit  to  Bonaventure's  school  of  the  im- 
mortal George  Washington  Tarbox,  a  forerunner  of  his 
own  "Album  of  Universal  Information"  ;  or  the  secret  but 
finally  triumphant  passion  of  Bonaventure  for  the  queenlike 
Sidonie. 

With  all  the  changing  conditions  that  accompanied  the 
cession  of  Louisiana  in  1803  as  a  background,  with  the 
pall  of  slavery  hanging  over  it,  and  the  picturesqueness  yet 
impossibility  of  an  absurd  but  heroic  devotion  to  a  social 
theory  of  caste  as  an  element  in  his  story,  Mr.  Cable  has 
written  in  "  The  Grandissimes  "  one  of  the  most  striking  and 
artistic  pieces  of  fiction  in  American  literature.  And  although 
the  Creoles  of  New  Orleans  have  resented  what  they  consider 
a  prejudiced  presentation  of  their  attitude  toward  slavery 
and  the  quadroon  class,  they  have  great  cause  for  gratifica- 


8o  Provincial  Types  in  the  South 

tion  that  a  novelist  of  such  imagination,  insight,  and  delicate 
touch  has  individualized  in  permanent  literary  form  such  rare 
and  winning  types  as  Honore"  Grandissime,  the  broad-minded 
and  gracefully  heroic  merchant  who  foresaw  the  true  des- 
tiny of  his  people  ;  such  bewitching,  shy,  and  dainty  beings 
as  Aurore  de  Grapion  and  her  daughter  Clotilde  ;  and  such 
free-hearted,  naive,  and  irrepressible  traits  as  go  to  the  mak- 
ing of  Raoul  Innerarity,  the  painter  of  "  Louisiana  rif-using 
to  hanter  de  h-Union."  The  immigrant  Joseph  Frowenfeld 
may  perhaps  be  criticised  as  a  lay  figure,  but  he  stands  for 
sanity  and  justness,  and  in  the  end  reaches  even  the  most 
fastidious  of  Creole  hearts.  Agricola  Fusilier,  as  the  em- 
bodiment of  the  unreasoning,  ridiculous,  but  relentless,  caste 
spirit  and  of  opposition  to  the  new  "  Ame'ricain  "  government, 
may  lack  a  certain  definiteness  of  characterization ;  but  as, 
dying,  he  joins  the  hands  of  Aurore,  the  daughter  of  his  old 
enemy,  and  Honore",  his  nephew,  —  the  promise  of  all  that 
was  best  in  the  Creole  future  —  he  becomes  a  very  signifi- 
cant and  essential  part  of  the  story.  As  for  Palmyre  Phi- 
losophe,  the  vengeful  practicer  of  voudou  arts,  —  where  in 
literature  will  you  find  a  stranger  figure  or  one  that  appeals 
more  directly  to  the  imagination  and  sympathy  ?  Her  hope- 
less love  for  the  white  Honore"  and  the  hopeless  love  of  her- 
self on  the  part  of  the  less  white  Honore",  "f.  m.  c."  (free 
man  of  color) ,  her  strange  power  over  the  black  giant,  Bras- 
Coupe",  and  her  terrorizing  of  Agricola  himself,  bring  her 
into  a  wide  circle  of  absorbing  interest.  Whether  the  hor- 
rible fate  of  poor  Clemence  seems,  as  it  does  in  the  judg- 
ment of  some  critics,  to  be  unnecessarily  detailed  for  the 
purposes  of  art,  or  whether  by  it  Mr.  Cable  intended  to  illus- 
trate the  power  of  superstition  over  master  as  well  as  slave, 
it  doubtless  is  true  enough  to  certain  phases  of  slave  life ; 


A  Brief  Survey  of  the  Field  8 1 

and  for  dramatic  strength  and  haunting  vividness  the  story 
of  "  Bras-Coupe*  "  stands  out  like  a  picture  painted  in  blood. 
Bras-Coupe",  with  chains  on  his  feet,  chains  on  his  wrists,  and 
an  iron  yoke  about  his  neck ;  Bras-Coupe",  with  his  tiger  eyes 
softening  before  Palmyre,  whom  he  loved ;  Bras-Coupe",  his 
gigantic  length  prostrate  in  the  dust  as  he  worshiped  the  sister 
of  Honore"  Grandissime ;  the  same  imperious  giant,  at  the 
wedding,  felling  his  Spanish  master  to  the  floor,  or  amid 
snakes  and  bats  and  lizards  living  a  hunted  outlaw  in  the 
heart  of  the  swamps ;  Bras-Coupe",  with  uplifted  palm  spread- 
ing his  malediction  over  house  and  fields,  or  lassoed  by  the 
Spanish  police  in  his  wild  and  drunken  dance,  or  strapped 
face  down  and  smitten  with  the  lash,  or  shorn  of  his  ears 
and  with  severed  tendons  and  bleeding  back  stretched  on 
a  bed  of  dry  grass ;  and  last  of  all  the  mutilated  slave  hold- 
ing his  dead  master's  little  child  and  dropping  his  first  tears 
upon  the  infant's  hand,  and  inaudibly  moving  his  lips  as  he 
waves  his  hand  abroad  and  lifts  the  dreadful  curse,  —  such 
is  the  series  of  pictures  that  Mr.  Cable  paints  in  this  power- 
ful epitome  of  the  savage  side  of  slavery.  But,  after  all,  the 
surviving  impressions  of  this  great  novel  are  not  those  of 
wrong  and  senseless  social  systems,  but  of  those  delightful 
and  sparkling  women,  —  Aurore  and  Clotilde, —  drawn  with 
such  exquisite  art  by  Mr.  Cable,  and  of  that  finished  and 
masterly  type  of  Creole  character,  Honore"  Grandissime. 

Besides  their  presentation  in  the  work  of  Mr.  Cable,  New 
Orleans  and  Louisiana  have  been  fortunate  also  in  the  inti- 
mate and  sympathetic  treatment  given  them  in  the  short 
stories  of  Grace  King,  such  as  "  Tales  of  a  Time  and 
Place,"  "Monsieur  Motte,"  and  "Balcony  Stories";  while 
Ruth  McEnery  Stuart,  a  native  of  Louisiana,  has  written 
with  convincing  closeness  to  Southern  life  the  tale  of 


82  Provincial  Types  in  the  South 

"Babette,  A  Little  Creole  Girl,"  "  Sonny  "  (the  story  of  an 
Arkansas  boy),  and  "  Napoleon  Jackson :  The  Gentleman 
of  the  Plush  Rocker." 

Kentucky  has  a  striking  phase  of  her  life  set  forth  with 
essential  truth  and  dramatic  interest  in  such  short  stories  as 
"  A  Cumberland  Vendetta,"  by  John  Fox,  Jr.,  —  the  charac- 
teristic family  feud,  which  ends  only  with  the  extinction  of 
the  male  members  of  the  family,  as  is  so  vividly  illustrated 
by  Mr.  Clemens  in  his  "  Huckleberry  Finn,"  and  in  some  of 
the  stories  of  Miss  Murfree.  The  desperate  hand-to-hand 
fight  on  the  mountain  side  —  as  pictured  in  "  A  Cumberland 
Vendetta"  —  between  Rome  Stetson  and  Jasper  Lewallen, 
the  boyish  representatives  of  those  rival  families,  was  a  criti- 
cal one,  for  it  meant  that  whichever  was  "  whooped  "  was 
thereby  compelled  to  leave  the  mountains  forever.  The 
desperation  and  treachery  and  sudden  death  in  this  encoun- 
ter are  given  with  a  dramatic  vividness  that  speaks  well  for 
the  literary  art  of  the  writer ;  and  the  final  picture  in  which 
the  hunted  young  outlaw,  the  last  of  his  family,  and  Martha 
Lewallen,  the  last  survivor  of  hers,  set  fire  to  her  home,  near 
the  fresh-made  graves  of  her  father  and  brother,  and  face 
together  the  dying  sunset  and  the  unknown  West,  is  a 
graphic  and  pathetic  illustration  of  the  desolating  effects  of 
family  hatreds.  Kentucky  is  to  be  congratulated,  also,  in 
having  a  citizen  who  appreciates  the  romance  of  her  history, 
and  is  able,  as  is  James  Lane  Allen,  to  throw  over  it  the 
glamor  of  his  own  imagination.  His  "  Flute  and  Violin, 
and  Other  Kentucky  Stories,"  his  "Kentucky  Cardinal" 
and  "  Choir  Invisible,"  and  his  romance  of  the  Kentucky 
hemp  fields,  —  "The  Reign  of  Law,"  —  abound  in  poetic 
description  of  their  native  setting  and  in  loyal  sentiment  for 
the  history  of  the  state. 


A  Brief  Survey  of  the  Field  83 

Eastern  Tennessee  found  in  Miss  Murfree,  better  known 
as  "Charles  Egbert  Craddock,"  an  interpreter  that  was 
thoroughly  familiar  with  the  background  of  her  stories,  ap- 
preciated with  an  artist's  love  of  color  the  marvelous  pano- 
rama of  sky  and  mountain  scenery,  and  entered  with  full 
sympathy  and  loving  insight  into  the  strange,  free,  supersti- 
tious, and  primitive  lives  of  the  isolated  mountaineers.  So 
much  of  description  is  given  at  times  to  the  environment 
of  sky  and  peak,  that  Miss  Murfree  is  sometimes  spoken  of  as 
belonging  to  the  "  landscape  school "  in  literary  art ;  and  it 
must  be  confessed  that  her  frequently  elaborate  descriptive 
writing  seems  now  and  then  to  delay  the  movement  of  her 
stories,  and,  except  to  the  highly  poetic  mind,  grows  somewhat 
wearisome.  But,  nevertheless,  when  one  is  past  these  par- 
ticular descriptive  portions,  and  is  immersed  in  the  intense 
action  of  her  vigorous  characters,  one  is  sure  to  feel  the  rare 
originality  of  her  work  and  to  be  absorbed  in  the  dramatic 
interest  with  which  she  portrays  the  desperate  "  moon- 
shiner" and  the  shy  mountain  lover,  the  superstitiously 
religious  folk  who  get  "  convicted,"  the  gaunt  and  work- 
worn  old  women,  and  the  wild,  sweet,  unsophisticated 
beauty  and  proud  strength  of  will  that  belong  to  certain 
girlish  types  among  the  villages  and  remote  farms  of  the 
mountain  regions  of  Tennessee.  The  latter  type  is  seen  in 
the  alluring  "Euphemy"  Sims,  who,  in  "The  Juggler," 
makes  her  lover,  Owen  Haines,  decide  between  herself  and 
"  prayin'  for  the  power  "  in  public,  and  who,  by  the  charm 
of  her  great  gray  eyes  and  the  sparkles  of  gold  in  her  hair, 
and  the  innocent  sweetness  of  her  nature,  wins  the  tempo- 
rary love  of  the  "Juggler"  himself,  Lucien  Royce,  the 
accomplished  man  of  the  city  and  the  world. 

"  In  the  Clouds,"  and  the  collection  of  short  stories  enti- 


84  Provincial  Types  in  the  South 

tied  "  In  the  Tennessee  Mountains,"  and  "  In  the  Stranger 
People's  Country,"  contain,  also,  Miss  Murfree's  varied  and 
successful  treatment  of  mountain  life ;  but  it  is  in  "  The 
Prophet  of  the  Great  Smoky  Mountains  "  that  one  gets  the 
largest  impression  of  her  knowledge  of  primitive  types,  and 
of  her  versatile  skill  in  portraying  sudden  and  dramatic 
action.  The  opening  dialogue  far  up  the  mountain  side 
between  Dorinda  Cayce,  the  old  "  moonshiner's  "  daughter, 
and  her  outlawed  lover,  Rick  Tyler,  presents  a  unique 
picture,  —  Dorinda,  impressive  in  her  simple  beauty  and 
buoyant  youthfulness,  plowing  the  corn  with  the  gaunt  old 
ox,  and  Rick,  with  jingling  spurs  and  dangling  pistols,  help- 
ing her  with  his  horse.  A  vivid  touch  of  the  dramatic  is 
felt  when  old  "  Ground-hog  "  Cayce,  on  his  return  at  night, 
learns  from  "  Dorindy "  that  'Cajah  Green,  the  sheriff  in 
pursuit  of  Rick,  had  threatened  her  with  jail  if  she  refused  to 
tell  the  whereabouts  of  her  lover.  The  fierce  old  man,  hold- 
ing his  rifle  in  the  moonlight,  insisted  that  his  insulted 
daughter  should  make  a  mark  on  its  barrel  in  memory  of 
the  sheriff's  words ;  but  she,  knowing  that  the  mark  meant 
certain  death  to  the  sheriff,  instinctively  drew  back ;  where- 
upon her  brother  seized  her  hand,  which  tremblingly  held 
the  long,  sharp  knife,  and  guided  it  in  the  form  of  a  cross 
near  the  rifle's  muzzle. 

Rick's  desperate  visit  to  the  "Settlemint"  to  reenforce 
his  powder  supply ;  his  treacherous  capture  by  Gid  Fletcher, 
the  blacksmith,  for  blood  money;  the  appealing,  tempes- 
tuous tones  of  Parson  Kelsey,  the  "  Prophet  of  the  Great 
Smoky  Mountains,"  as  he  wrestled  in  prayer  on  the  great 
"bald";  his  meeting  with  the  blacksmith,  and  his  heroic 
turning  of  his  other  cheek  when  the  blacksmith  had  suddenly 
struck  him  in  the  face;  his  uncompromising  "  prophecy  " 


A  Brief  Survey  of  the  Field  85 

that  Micajah  Green  would  never  be  reflected  sheriff;  his 
holding  the  blacksmith  at  bay  with  a  "  six-shooter  "  to  end 
the  gander-pulling  contest ;  and  the  mystifying  escape  of 
Rick  from  his  temporary  prison  in  the  blacksmith  shop,  — 
all  these  are  set  forth  with  a  picturesque  power  that  makes 
them  live  in  the  memory. 

Brother  Jake  Tobin's  unctuous  and  dramatic  reading  of 
the  Scriptures  in  the  little  log  meeting-house  on  Sunday, 
and  his  desperate  calling  on  Brother  Reuben  Bates  to  "  lead 
in  prayer,"  were  only  preliminary  to  the  expected  sermon 
by  Hi  Kelsey,  the  "prophet"  of  the  Big  Smoky;  and  not 
even  the  tragic  words  of  Arthur  Dimmesdale  on  the  scaffold, 
when  he  revealed  the  "  scarlet  letter  "  and  made  his  dying 
confession,  had  a  more  horrifying  and  sensational  effect 
than  the  prophet's  confession  that  he  had  lost  his  faith,  and 
that  Hell  and  the  Devil  had  prevailed  against  him. 

What  more  satisfying  picture  than  that  of  the  worn  and 
armed  outlaw,  Rick,  sitting  before  the  fire  and  stealing  a 
sweet  interview  with  Dorinda  spinning  at  her  wheel.  And 
how  exultant  his  heart  when  Dorinda's  flashing  eyes  told 
him  that  she  would  dare  to  marry  him  and  live  in  his  house, 
even  though  a  rifle's  muzzle  or  a  sheriff's  revolver  might 
peek  through  the  rails  of  the  fence  !  And  when  he  finally 
announced  to  her  that  the  real  murderer  had  confessed  the 
crime  with  which  he  himself  was  charged,  his  delight  over 
her  faith  in  his  valor  took  the  repeated  form  of  this  proud 
exclamation  :  "  An'  ye  warn't  afeard  !  Ye  would  hev  mar- 
ried me  and  resked  it.  Ye  warn't  afeard  !  " 

The  sudden  discovery  and  destruction  of  Cayce's  illicit  still 
in  the  cave ;  the  later  visit  of  old  Ground-hog  Cayce  him- 
self to  his  dismantled  den  and  the  silent  nursing  of  his  wrath ; 
the  growing  inflexibility  and  hopelessness  of  Dorinda's  face 


86  Provincial  Types  in  the  South 

which  began  to  look  even  like  her  father's  lowering  coun- 
tenance ;  her  continued  unswerving  sympathy  with  the  ac- 
cused "prophet"  and  her  assumed  indifference  to  her  lover 
Rick;  the  acquittal  of  the  parson  and  his  terrific  arraign- 
ment of  his  enemies  in  court ;  his  strange  colloquy  with  the 
murderous  Cayces  the  night  of  the  snow-storm,  when  he  pro- 
nounced the  direful  prophecy  of  future  penalties ;  the  wild 
cry  for  help  in  the  night  when  'Cajah  Green  was  captured, 
and  the  wilder  ride  to  the  mouth  of  the  cave ;  and  then 
the  truly  vicarious  sacrifice  of  the  "  prophet  "  as  in  the  con- 
fusion of  darkness  and  haste  he  was  hurled  to  his  death 
instead  of  his  arch-enemy,  the  sheriff,  —  such  a  narrative  im- 
presses one  not  only  as  a  strong  piece  of  dramatic  writing 
but  as  a  convincing  "human  document  "  filled  with  knowl- 
edge of  a  little-known  and  peculiar  people. 


CHAPTER  VI 
"IN  OLE  VIRGINIA"  BY  THOMAS  NELSON  PAGE 

IN  this  collection  of  short  stories,  written  by  a  Southerner 
about  the  South,  there  are  two  or  three  that  have  already 
become  classic,  like  "  Marse  Chan,"  "  Meh  Lady,"  and 
"  Polly."  One  speaks  of  them  now  as  if  they  were  a  recog- 
nized part  of  American  literature ;  and  it  is  somewhat  sur- 
prising to  learn  that  the  first-mentioned  story,  when  sent  to 
the  old  Scribner's  Monthly,  brought  but  eighty  dollars,  and 
was  held  for  four  years  before  publication,  finally  appearing 
in  the  new  Century  magazine. 

Despite  the  widespread  prejudice  against  mere  dialect  as 
a  vehicle  for  literary  expression,  it  must  be  confessed  that 
"  Marse  Chan  "  and  "  Meh  Lady  "  would  lose  much  of  their 
unique  charm  and  their  closeness  to  Southern  life  if  they 
did  not  seem  to  emanate  from  the  inmost  hearts  and  experi- 
ences of  those  loyal  old  "  darkies,"  Sam  and  Billy.  These 
faithful  souls  are  the  natural,  unaffected  exponents  of  a  phase 
of  Southern  life  that  has  largely  passed  away,  —  they  were 
an  integral  and  essential  part  of  the  social  system  that  is 
here  reflected  and  characterized  in  all  its  free-hearted  hos- 
pitality, its  quick  sense  of  honor  and  chivalry,  its  impulsive 
hot-headedness,  and  its  instinctive  bravery. 

Unconsciously  typical  of  the  Old  South  was  the  negro 
standing  with  a  hoe  and  a  watering-pot  in  his  hand,  waiting 

87 


88  Provincial  Types  in  the  South 

at  the  "  worm-fence  "  for  the  advent  down  the  path  of  a 
noble-looking  old  setter,  gray  with  age  and  over-round  from 
too  abundant  feeding.  The  setter,  like  some  old-time 
planter,  sauntered  slowly,  and  in  lordly  oblivion  of  the  negro, 
up  to  the  fence,  while  the  latter  began  to  take  down  the 
rails,  talking  meanwhile  to  the  dog  in  a  pretended  tone  of 
criticism :  "  Now,  I  got  to  pull  down  de  gap,  I  suppose  ! 
Yo'  so  sp'ilt  yo'  kyahn  hardly  walk.  Jes'  ez  able  to  git  over 
it  as  I  is  !  Jes'  like  white  folks  —  think  'cuzyou's  white  and 
I's  black,  I  got  to  wait  on  yo'  all  de  time.  Ne'm  mine,  I 
ain'  gwi'  do  it ! "  As  his  dogship  marched  sedately  through 
the  "  gap "  and  down  the  road,  the  negro  suddenly  dis- 
covered a  stranger  looking  on,  and  hastened  to  remark 
somewhat  apologetically :  "  He  know  I  don'  mean  nothin' 
by  what  I  sez.  He's  Marse  Chan's  dawg,  an'  he's  so  ole  he 
kyahn  git  long  no  pearter.  He  know  I'se  jes'  prodjickin' 
wid  'im." 

The  darky  explained  to  the  stranger  that  "  Marse  Chan," 
(or  Channin')  was  his  young  master,  that  the  place  with  "  de 
rock  gate-pos's "  which  the  stranger  had  just  passed  was 
"  ole  Cun'l  Chamb'lin's,"  and  that  since  the  war  "  our  place  " 
had  been  acquired  by  certain  "unknowns  "  who  were  prob- 
ably "  half- strainers." 

At  the  request  of  the  stranger  to  tell  him  all  about  "  Marse 
Chan  "  the  old  negro  recalled,  "  jes'  like  'twuz  yistiddy,"  how 
"ole  marster "  (Marse  Chan's  father),  smiling  "wusn'  a 
'possum,"  came  out  on  the  porch  with  his  new-born  son  in 
his  arms,  and  catching  sight  of  Sam  (the  narrator,  who  was 
then  but  eight  years  old),  called  him  up  on  the  porch  and 
put  the  baby  in  his  arms,  with  the  solemn  injunction  that 
Sam  was  to  be  the  young  master's  body-servant  as  long  as 
he  lived.  "  Yo'  jes'  ought  to  a-heard  de  folks  sayin', '  Lawd  ! 


"In  Ole  Virginia"  89 

marster,  dat  boy'll  drap  dat  chile  ! '  '  Naw,  he  won't,'  sez 
marster ;  '  I  kin  trust  'im.'  "  And  then  the  old  master  walked 
after  Sam  carrying  the  young  master,  until  Sam  entered  the 
house  and  laid  his  precious  burden  on  the  bed. 

Sam  recalled,  too,  how  Marse  Chan,  when  in  school,  once 
carried  Miss  Anne,  Colonel  Chamberlin's  little  daughter,  on 
his  shoulders  across  a  swollen  creek,  and  how  the  next  day, 
when  his  father  gave  him  a  pony  to  show  his  pleasure  over 
his  son's  chivalry,  Marse  Chan  came  walking  home  from 
school,  having  given  his  pony  to  Miss  Anne.  " '  Yes,'  sez 
ole  marster,  laughin',  '  I  s'pose  you's  already  done  giv'  her 
yo'se'f,  an'  nex'  thing  I  know  you'll  be  givin'  her  this  planta- 
tion and  all  my  niggers.'  "  It  was  only  a  fortnight  later 
that  Colonel  Chamberlin  invited  the  "ole  marster"  and  his 
whole  family  over  to  dinner,  —  expressly  naming  Marse 
Chan  in  the  note,  —  and  after  dinner  two  ponies  stood  at 
the  door,  the  one  Marse  Chan  had  given  Miss  Anne,  and 
the  other  a  present  to  Marse  Chan  from  the  Colonel.  And 
after  a  "  gre't  "  speech  by  the  Colonel,  the  two  young  lovers 
went  off  to  ride,  while  the  "  grown  folks "  laughed  and 
chatted  and  smoked  their  cigars. 

To  the  eye  of  Sam's  endearing  memory  those  were  the 
good  old  times,  —  "  de  bes'  Sam  ever  see  !  Dey  wuz,  in 
fac'  !  Niggers  didn'  hed  nothin'  't  all  to  do — jes'  hed  to 
'ten'  to  de  feedin'  an'  cleanin'  de  horses,  an'  doin'  what  de 
marster  tell  'em  to  do ;  an'  when  dey  wuz  sick,  dey  had 
things  sont  'em  out  de  house,  an'  de  same  doctor  come 
to  see  'em  whar  'ten'  to  de  white  folks  when  dey  wuz  po'ly. 
Dyar  warn'  no  trouble  nor  nothin'." 

The  considerate  affection  shown  for  the  young  Sam  by 
Marse  Chan  was  illustrated  by  the  little  incident  of  the 
punishment  inflicted  on  both  of  them  by  the  "  ole  marster  " 


90  Provincial  Types  in  the  South 

for  sliding  down  the  straw-stacks  against  orders.  The  master 
first  whipped  young  Marse  Chan  and  then  began  on  Sam, 
who  was  using  his  lungs  to  lighten  the  severity  of  his 
punishment.  Marse  Chan  took  his  own  whipping  without 
a  murmur ;  "  but  soon  ez  he  commence  warmin'  me 
an'  I  begin  to  holler,  Marse  Chan  he  bu'st  out  cryin', 
an'  stept  right  in  befo'  old  marster,  an'  ketchin'  de  whup, 
sed :  — 

" '  Stop,  seh  !  Yo'  sha'n't  whup  'im ;  he  b'longs  to  me, 
an'  ef  you  hit  'im  another  lick  I'll  set  'im  free  ! '  .  .  . 

"  Marse  Chan  he  warn'  mo'n  eight  years  ole,  an'  dyah 
dey  wuz  —  ole  marster  standin'  wid  he  whup  raised  up, 
an'  Marse  Chan  red  an'  cryin',  hol'in'  on  to  it,  an'  sayin'  I 
b'longs  to  'im. 

"  Ole  marster,  he  raise'  de  whup,  an'  den  he  drapt  it, 
an'  broke  out  in  a  smile  over  he  face,  an'  he  chuck  Marse 
Chan  onder  de  chin,  an'  tu'n  right  roun'  an'  went  away, 
laughin'  to  hisse'f ;  an'  I  heah  'im  tellin'  ole  missis  dat  evenin', 
an'  laughin'  'bout  it." 

Sam's  vivid  memory  saw  again  the  picture  of  the  dawnlight 
on  the  river  when  Marse  Chan  and  old  Colonel  Chamberlin 
fought  their  famous  duel  that  grew  out  of  the  unfounded 
charges  against  Marse  Chan's  father  made  by  the  Colonel 
in  a  political  speech.  Sam  could  see  again  the  early  morn- 
ing light  on  his  young  master's  face,  and  could  hear  the 
ominous  voice  of  one  of  the  seconds  saying,  "  Gentlemen, 
are  you  ready?  " 

"  An'  he  sez,  '  Fire,  one,  two  '  —  an'  ez  he  said  '  one  '  ole 
Cun'l  Chamb'lin  raised  he  pistil  an'  shot  right  at  Marse 
Chan.  De  ball  went  th'oo'  his  hat.  I  seen  he  hat  sort  o' 
settle  on  he  head  ez  de  bullit  hit  it,  an'  he  jes'  tilted  his 
pistil  up  in  de  a'r  an'  shot  —  bang;  an'  ez  de  pistil  went 


"In  Ole  Virginia "  91 

bang,  he  sez  to  Cun'l  Chamb'lin,  '  I  mek  you  a  present  to 
yo'  fam'ly,  seh  ! '  .  .  . 

"  But  ole  Cun'l  Chamb'lin  he  nuver  did  furgive  Marse 
Chan,  an'  Miss  Anne  she  got  mad  too.  Wimmens  is  mons'us 
onreasonable  nohow.  Dey's  jes'  like  a  catfish :  you  can 
n'  tek  hole  on  'em  like  udder  folks,  an'  when  you  gits  'm 
yo'  can  n'  always  hole  'em." 

In  sympathetic  and  picturesque  language  the  old  darky 
recounted  the  last  meeting  between  Marse  Chan  and  Miss 
Anne,  as  they  stood  together  in  the  moonlight,  and  Sam 
overheard  the  fateful  words  of  the  implacable  Southern 
woman,  " '  But  I  don'  love  yo'.'  (Jes'  dem  th'ee  wuds  !) 
De  wuds  fall  right  slow  —  like  dirt  falls  out  a  spade  on  a 
coffin  when  yo's  buryin'  anybody,  an'  seys,  'Uth  to  uth.' 
Marse  Chan  he  jes'  let  her  hand  drap,  an'  he  stiddy  hisse'f 
'g'inst  de  gate-pos',  an'  he  didn'  speak  torekly." 

Sam's  relation  of  how  Marse  Chan  went  to  the  war,  of  how 
in  the  tent  he  knocked  down  Mr.  Ronny  for  speaking  con- 
temptuously of  Colonel  Chamberlin  and  his  daughter,  and 
of  the  effect  on  Marse  Chan's  face  of  the  letter  of  reconcilia- 
tion and  love  he  received  from  Miss  Anne,  —  brings  the 
vivid  narrative  to  Marse  Chan's  splendid  charge  on  the 
field  at  the  head  of  the  regiment,  carrying  its  fallen  flag  up 
the  hill,  and  inspiring  it  by  his  dauntless  leadership.  "  I 
seen  'im  when  he  went,  de  sorrel  four  good  lengths  ahead 
o'  ev'ry  urr  hoss,  jes'  like  he  use'  to  be  in  a  fox-hunt,  an' 
de  whole  rigimint  right  arfter  him."  But  suddenly  the 
sorrel  came  galloping  back  with  flying  mane,  and  the  rein 
hanging  down  on  one  side  to  his  knee,  —  and  poor  Sam 
knew  that  Marse  Chan  must  be  killed.  He  found  his  mas- 
ter among  the  dead  men,  still  holding  in  his  hand  the  flag 
as  he  lay  beneath  one  of  the  guns.  "  I  tu'n  'im  over  an' 


92  Provincial  Types  in  the  South 

call  'im, '  Marse  Chan  ! '  but 't  wan'  no  use,  he  wuz  done  gone 
home,  sho'  'miff.  I  pick'  'im  up  in  my  arms  wid  de  fleg 
still  in  he  han's,  an'  toted  'im  back  jes'  like  I  did  dat  day 
when  he  wuz  a  baby,  an'  ole  marster  gin  'im  to  me  in  my 
arms,  an'  sez  he  could  trus'  me,  an'  tell  me  to  tek  keer  on 
'im  long  ez  he  lived." 

And  when  Sam  reached  home  with  the  body  in  the  ambu- 
lance and  had  gone  over  to  let  Miss  Anne  know  the  awful 
news,  that  "  Marse  Chan  he  done  got  he  furlough,"  and  she 
had  ridden  back  and  prostrated  herself  before  Marse  Chan's 
old  mother,  there  is  the  close  of  the  tragic  story  as  told  by 
the  loyal  old  negro  in  these  words  :  — 

"  Ole  missis  stood  for  'bout  a  minit  lookin'  down  at  her, 
an'  den  she  drapt  down  on  de  flo'  by  her,  an'  took  her  in 
bofe  her  arms. 

"  I  couldn'  see,  I  wuz  cryin'  so  myse'f,  an'  ev'ybody  wuz 
cryin'.  But  dey  went  in  arfter  a  while  in  de  parlor,  an'  shet 
de  do' ;  an'  I  heahd  'em  say,  Miss  Anne  she  tuk  de  coffin  in 
her  arms  an'  kissed  it,  an'  kissed  Marse  Chan,  an'  call  'im  by 
his  name,  an'  her  darlin',  an'  ole  missis  lef '  her  cryin'  in  dyar 
tell  some  one  on  'em  went  in,  an'  found  her  done  faint  on  de 
flo'."  And  it  was  not  long  before  Miss  Anne,  broken  by  nursing 
in  the  hospitals  and  by  fever  and  sorrow,  was  laid  beside  the 
body  of  Marse  Chan.  So  pathetic  and  brave  and  illuminating 
a  story  concerning  the  South  at  the  beginning  of  the  Civil  War 
it  would  be  difficult  to  find  elsewhere  in  American  literature. 

In  this  collection  of  short  stories  "Unc'  Edinburgh 
Drowndin' "  is  considered  by  Mr.  Page  himself  as  perhaps 
his  best  picture  of  old  Virginia  society ;  and  it  does  indeed 
present  a  variety  of  phases  of  the  plantation  and  negro 
life,  drawn  with  convincing  art  and  a  charming  element  of 
relieving  humor. 


"In  Ole  Virginia"  93 

"Ole  Billy,"  peeling  cedar  fish-poles  and  introducing  with 
loving  detail  his  story  of  "  Meh  Lady,"  is  a  typical  figure  of 
the  loyal,  sympathetic,  and  humorous  old  house  servant  that 
Mr.  Page  delights  to  use,  and  somewhat  idealizes,  as  the 
spokesman  in  his  dialect  stories  of  the  South.  Billy,  in  re- 
calling the  looks  and  ways  of  Meh  Lady  as  a  little  girl,  bent 
on  following  her  ambitious  brother,  Marse  Phil,  said  that  she 
used  to  look  "white  'mong  dem  urr  chil'ns  as  a  clump  o' 
blackberry  blossoms  'mong  de  blackberries.  .  .  .  An'  her 
eyes  !  I  do  b'lieve  she  laugh  mo'  wid  'em  'n  wid  her  mouf. 
She  was  de  'light  o'  dis  plantation  !  When  she'd  come  in 
you'  house  'twuz  like  you'd  shove  back  de  winder  an'  let 
piece  o'  de  sun  in  on  de  flo'  —  you  could  almos'  see  by 
her  !  "  She  and  Marse  Phil,  Billy  declared,  were  practically 
inseparable  in  all  their  pursuits  until  he  went  to  college,  and 
even  till  he  went  into  the  war.  And  then  the  old  darky 
relates,  with  all  the  vivid  detail  of  an  eye-witness,  how  he 
started  at  dawn  with  the  carriage  and  the  "  Mistis  "  and 
Meh  Lady  to  drive  to  the  battle-field  where  Marse  Phil  lay 
wounded  unto  death.  "  I  see  de  soldiers  all  'long  de  road 
look  at  me,  an'  some  on  'em  holler  to  me  dat  I  cyarn'  go 
dat  way ;  but  I  ain't  pay  no  'tention  to  'em,  I  jes'  push  on." 
Presently  he  saw  in  an  oat  field  the  house  to  which  Marse 
Phil  had  been  taken,  and  he  was  urging  on  the  horses  when 
three  or  four  men  standing  in  the  roadway  ahead,  cried, 
"Halt."  They  cried  "Halt"  a  second  time,  noticing  that 
he  paid  no  attention  to  them ;  and  finally  "  a  spreckle-face 
feller  run  up  an'  ketch  Remus'  head,  an'  anurr  one  done 
p'int  he  gun  right  at  me."  The  old  servant  protested  his 
surprise  that  they  didn't  have  any  better  sense  than  to 
"  ketch  holt  Mistis'  horses,"  and  was  just  on  the  point  of 
using  his  whip  on  one  of  the  men,  when  the  door  of  the  car- 


94  Provincial  Types  in  the  South 

riage  opened  and  the  "  Mistis  "  stepped  out.  She  told  them 
that  her  son  was  dying  in  the  house  just  beyond  and  she  was 
going  to  him.  "  She  talk  mighty  sorf '  but  mighty  'termined 
like.  Dee  sort  o'  reason  wid  her,  but  she  jes'  walk  on  by 
wid  her  head  up,  an'  tell  me  to  foller  her,  an'  dat  I  did, 
mon  !  an'  lef  'em  dyah  in  de  road  holdin'  dee  gun.  De 
whole  army  couldn'  'a'  keep  her  fum  Marse  Phil  den." 
Marse  Phil  died  that  night  in  his  mother's  arms  as  peace- 
fully as  a  baby,  saying  it  was  just  like  the  old  times  when  he 
used  to  go  to  sleep  in  her  lap  in  his  own  room,  with  her  arms 
around  him.  And  the  colonel  of  his  regiment  wrote  Marse 
Phil's  mother  how  the  Confederacy  mourned  his  loss,  and 
how  he  was  made  a  colonel  on  the  day  he  was  shot ;  and 
the  proud  negro  added  in  his  narrative  that  Marse  Phil's 
new  title  of  honor  was  on  the  tombstone  and  that  one  could 
still  go  into  the  garden  and  read  it. 

The  panic  among  the  darkies  on  the  sudden  advent  of 
the  Yankees;  the  insults  of  the  irresponsible  Northern  sol- 
diery ;  the  protecting  attitude  of  "  Ole  Billy  "  standing,  ax  in 
hand ;  the  gallant  entrance  of  Captain  Wilton  of  the  Northern 
army  —  though  half  Virginian  and  kinsman  to  Meh  Lady  ; 
the  typical  unrelenting  pride  of  Meh  Lady  and  the  "  Mistis  "  ; 
the  captain's  strenuous  ride  with  a  letter  from  General 
McClellan ;  the  turning  of  the  old  Southern  home  into  a  hos- 
pital for  Southern  soldiers,  with  "  Mistis  "  and  Meh  Lady  as 
nurses  ;  the  bringing  of  the  wounded  Northern  soldier  to  the 
house  and  tenderly  nursing  him  back  to  life,  his  interesting 
convalescence  and  his  unmistakable  love  for  Meh  Lady, 
with  her  reluctant  refusal  to  marry  him  on  the  ground  that 
she  couldn't  marry  a  Union  soldier,  —  all  come  in  as  striking 
incidents  in  the  development  of  the  story.  And  the  swift 
reduction  of  the  "  Mistis "  and  Meh  Lady  to  extremest 


"In  Ole  Virginia"  95 

poverty ;  the  mortgaging  of  the  plantation ;  the  bitter  sur- 
render of  Richmond  and  General  Lee ;  the  renewed  effort 
of  Colonel  Wilton  to  be  recognized  as  a  lover;  Billy's 
humorous  purchase  of  the  mule  to  help  Meh  Lady;  her 
brave  efforts  at  school  teaching ;  and  the  fading  out  of  her 
mother's  life,  —  these  continue  the  pathetic  narrative  to  the 
terrible  isolation  of  Meh  Lady,  and  the  final  uncertain  visit 
of  the  Northern  suitor.  Meh  Lady's  second  refusal,  old 
Hannah's  message  to  the  Colonel  and  her  upbraiding  him 
with  being  no  "  pertector  to  the  chile,"  and  the  Colonel's 
taking  of  the  reins  into  his  own  hands  and  insisting  on  an 
immediate  marriage,  carry  us  forward  to  his  important  ride 
to  the  court-house,  with  "  Ole  Billy  "  following  on  the  col- 
lapsing mule.  But  alas  !  Billy's  memory  as  to  Meh  Lady's 
age  was  all  too  misty.  "  I  know  her  age,  'cause  I  right  dyah 
when  she  born;  but  how  ole  she  is,  I  don'  know."  It 
looked,  under  the  circumstances,  as  if  they  would  have  to 
take  a  forty-mile  ride  back  to  the  family  records,  when  sud- 
denly the  old  negro  connected  Meh  Lady's  birth  with  that 
of  Marse  Phil,  a  legal  record  of  his  words  was  made,  the 
clerk  of  the  court  was  able  himself  to  confirm  the  truth  of 
the  negro's  memory,  and  the  necessary  license  was 
triumphantly  carried  back. 

Such  preparations  that  morning  for  the  unexpected  wed- 
ding !  "  Hannah  she  sut'n'y  wuz  comical,  she  ironin'  an' 
sewin'  dyah  so  induschus  she  oon'  le'  me  come  in  meh  own 
house."  And  when  they  were  all  ready  for  the  ceremony, 
Hannah  suddenly  flung  the  door  wide  open,  "An'  Meh 
Lady  walk  out !  Gord  !  ef  I  didn'  think  'twuz  a  angel. 
She  stan'  dyah  jes'  wliite  as  snow  fum  her  head  to  way  back 
down  on  de  flo'  behine  her,  an'  her  veil  done  fall  roun'  her 
like  white  mist,  an'  some  roses  in  her  han'.  Ef  it  didn' 


96  Provincial  Types  in  the  South 

look  like  de  sun  done  come  th'oo  de  chahmber  do'  wid  her, 
an'  blaze  all  over  de  styars,  an'  de  Cun'l  he  look  like  she 
bline  him.  .  .  .  An'  dyah  facin'  Mistis'  picture  an'  Marse 
Phil's  (tooken  when  he  wuz  a  little  boy),  lookin'  down  at 
'em  bofe,  dee  wuz  married." 

The  point  in  the  ceremony  where  the  minister  asks  "  Who 
gives  this  woman  to  this  man?"  seemed  to  the  faithful 
darky  to  make  some  demand  upon  himself.  "  I  don'  know 
huccome  'twuz,  but  I  think  'bout  Marse  Jeems  an'  Mistis 
when  he  ax  me  dat,  an'  Marse  Phil,  whar  all  dead,  an'  all  de 
scuffim'  we  done  been  th'oo,  an'  how  de  chile  am'  got  no 
body  to  teck  her  part  now  'sep  jes'  me ;  an'  now  when  he 
wait  an'  look  at  me  dat  way,  an'  ax  me  dat,  I  'bleeged  to 
speak  up  •  I  jes'  step  for'ard  an'  say.  '  Ole  Billy.'  " 

"In  Ole  Virginia"  is  completed  by  the  weird  and 
haunting  sketch  of"  No  Haid  Pawn,"  "  Ole  'Stracted,"  and 
the  delightful  "  Polly,"  —  with  its  inimitable  Colonel,  —  a 
charming  kinsman  of  Hopkinson  Smith's  "  Colonel  Carter," 
—  its  Drinkwater  Torm,  who  was  always  on  the  point  of 
being  sold  the  following  morning,  and  the  irresistible  Polly 
herself,  who  knew  so  well  the  diplomatic  uses  of  mint. 


CHAPTER  VII 

"COLONEL  CARTER  OF  CARTERSVILLE "  BY 
F.  HOPKINSON  SMITH 

THERE  is  probably  no  happier  illustration  of  F.  Hopkin- 
son  Smith's  versatility  as  a  story  writer  than  that  found  in 
his  "Colonel  Carter  of  Cartersville,"  where  he  has  drawn, 
with  somewhat  extravagant  hand,  perhaps,  a  Southern  type 
of  rare  good  fellowship,  real  bravery  and  chivalry,  bound- 
less hospitality,  and  delightfully  visionary  schemes.  He  be- 
longs to  that  group  of  old-time  Southern  gentlemen  so 
attractively  portrayed  by  Thomas  Nelson  Page  in  "  Marse 
Chan  "  "  Meh  Lady,"  and  "  Polly,"  and  has  already  become 
a  genial  companion  to  a  host  of  readers.  And  Chad  —  com- 
bination of  cook,  butler,  body-servant,  and  boots  —  is  a 
negro  type  that  deserves  to  associate  with  Mr.  Page's  Sam 
and  Billy  and  Torm. 

The  preparations  for  the  Colonel's  first  dinner  are  sig- 
nificant of  the  Colonel's  improvident  but  irresistible  ways,  — 
he  wrote  to  his  friend,  the  Major  :  "  Will  you  lend  me  half 
a  dozen  napkins  —  mine  are  all  in  the  wash,  and  I  want 
enough  to  carry  me  over  Sunday.  Chad  will  bring,  with  your 
permission,  the  extra  pair  of  andirons  you  spoke  of."  As 
the  Major  waited  for  his  host's  appearance,  he  was  impressed 
by  the  cozy,  charming  interior  of  the  Colonel's  dining  room, 
—  an  irregularly  shaped  apartment,  panelled  with  a  dark  wood 
H  97 


98  Provincial  Types  in  the  South 

running  half  way  to  the  low  ceiling,  and  containing  two  fire- 
places —  "  an  'open  wood  fire  which  laughed  at  me  from  be- 
hind my  own  andirons,  and  an  old-fashioned  English  grate 
set  into  the  chimney  with  wide  hobs  —  convenient  and  nec- 
essary for  the  various  brews  and  mixtures  for  which  the 
Colonel  was  famous."  The  Major  also  had  time  to  notice  the 
snow-white  cloth  resplendent  in  old  India  blue,  the  pair  of 
silver  coasters  —  heirlooms  from  Carter  Hall  —  the  silver 
candelabra  with  candles  —  as  the  Colonel  despised  gas  — 
and  some  of  the  etchings  and  sketches  from  his  own  studio, 
which  he  had  loaned  to  the  appreciative  Colonel.  Suddenly 
he  heard  the  Colonel  calling  down  the  back  stairs  :  "  Not  a 
minute  over  eighteen,  Chad.  You  ruined  those  ducks  last 
Sunday."  And  the  next  moment  he  had  his  guest  by  the 
hand.  "  My  dear  Major,  I  am  pa'alyzed  to  think  I  kep'  you 
waitin'.  .  .  .  Have  a  drop  of  sherry  and  a  dash  of  bitters, 
or  shall  we  wait  for  Fitzpatrick?  You  don't  know  Fitz? 
Most  extraord'nary  man ;  a  great  mind,  suh ;  literature, 
science,  politics,  finance,  everything  at  his  fingers'  ends.  .  .  . 
Put  yo'  body  in  that  chair  and  yo'  feet  on  the  fender  —  my 
fire  and  yo'  fender  !  No,  Fitz's  fender  and  yo'  andirons  ! 
Charmin'  combination  ! " 

And  to  make  the  picture  of  this  hospitable  Southerner  com- 
plete the  Major  gives  this  bit  of  description :  "  He  is  per- 
haps fifty  years  of  age,  tall  and  slightly  built.  His  iron-gray 
hair  is  brushed  straight  back  from  his  forehead,  overlapping 
his  collar  behind.  His  eyes  are  deep-set  and  twinkling ; 
nose  prominent ;  cheeks  slightly  sunken ;  brow  wide  and 
high ;  and  chin  and  jaw  strong  and  marked.  His  mustache 
droops  over  a  firm,  well-cut  mouth  and  unites  at  its  ends 
with  a  gray  goatee  which  rests  on  his  shirt  front. 

"  Like  most  Southerners  living  away  from  great  cities,  his 


Copyright  1891,  by  Houghton,  Mijftm  &  Co. 

"  MY  FIRE  is  MY  FRIEND." 

From  «  Colonel  Carter  of  Cartersville,"  by  F.  Hopkinson  Smith.     By  permission  of 
Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co. 


"  Colonel  Carter  of  Cartersville  "  99 

voice  is  soft  and  low,  and  tempered  with  a  cadence  that  is 
delicious. 

"  He  wears  a  black  broadcloth  coat  —  a  double-breasted 
garment  —  with  similar  colored  waistcoat  and  trousers,  a 
turn-down  collar,  a  shirt  of  many  plaits  which  is  under- 
starched  and  over-wrinkled  but  always  clean,  large  cuffs 
very  much  frayed,  a  narrow  black  or  white  tie,  and  low 
shoes  with  white  cotton  stockings." 

This  black  broadcloth  coat,  by  the  way,  the  Colonel  used 
to  adapt  to  various  functions  :  for  a  funeral  or  other  serious 
matter  on  his  mind  the  Colonel  wore  this  coat  buttoned 
close  up  under  his  chin,  showing  only  the  upper  edge  of  his 
white  collar  and  the  stray  end  of  a  black  cravat ;  for  dinner 
he  buttoned  it  lower  down,  revealing  a  bit  of  his  plaited 
shirt ;  and  for  a  wedding  it  was  thrown  wide  open,  discover- 
ing a  stiff,  starched,  white  waistcoat  with  ivory  buttons  and 
snowy  neck-cloth. 

As  the  Major  incidentally  remarks,  the  Colonel  was  "hos- 
pitable to  the  verge  of  beggary,"  -enthusiastic  as  he  was 
visionary,  tender-hearted  and  happy  as  a  boy,  proud  of  his 
ancestry,  his  state,  and  himself,  and  an  unswerving  believer 
in  states'  rights,  slavery,  and  the  Confederacy ;  "  and  away 
down  in  the  bottom  of  his  soul  still  clinging  to  the  belief 
that  the  poor  white  trash  of  the  earth  includes  about  every- 
body outside  of  Fairfax  County."  He  was  beyond  the  pos- 
sibility of  "reconstruction,"  and  he  chafed  continually  under 
what  he  believed  to  be  the  tyranny  of  "the  Government," 
which  latter  term,  however,  really  referred  to  the  distribu- 
tion of  certain  local  offices  in  his  own  immediate  vicinity. 

Upon  the  belated  arrival  of  the  thick-set,  round-faced 
Fitzpatrick,  the  Colonel  sprang  forward,  seizing  him  by  the 
shoulders,  and  exclaiming,  "  What  the  devil  do  you  mean, 


ioo  Provincial  Types  in  the  South 

Fitz,  by  comin'  ten  minutes  late?  Don't  you  know,  suh, 
that  the  burnin'  of  a  canvasback  is  a  crime  ?  —  Stuck  in  the 
snow?  Well,  I'll  forgive  you  this  once,  but  Chad  won't. 
Give  me  yo'  coat  —  bless  me  !  it  is  as  wet  as  a  setter 
dog.  .  .  .  Major,  Fitz  !  —  Fitz,  the  Major  !  Take  hold  of 
each  other."  And  then  came  the  vigorous  signal  for  dinner, 
—  three  raps  on  the  floor  with  a  poker,  and  a  voice  rumbled 
up  from  below :  "  Comin',  sah  ! "  And  Chad  dished  the 
dinner.  "  To  dine  well  was  with  him  an  inherited  instinct. 
.  .  .  To  share  with  you  his  last  crust  was  a  part  of  his 
religion ;  to  eat  alone,  a  crime." 

Immediately  at  the  close  of  the  next  dinner  given  by  the 
Colonel,  he  began  the  discussion  with  Fitzpatrick  and  the 
Major  of  his  darling  scheme  of  furnishing,  by  his  proposed 
"  Cartersville  and  Warrentown  Air  Line  Railroad,"  an  outlet 
to  the  sea  for  "the  garden  spot  of  Virginia,"  a  plan  for 
which  he  illustrated,  —  in  lieu  of  the  map  which  he  had  left 
at  the  office,  —  by  the  use  at  significant  points  of  the  mus- 
tard-pot, salt-cellar,  cheese,  and  carving-knife.  To  the 
Major's  practical  inquiry  as  to  the  advantage  of  building 
twelve  additional  miles  of  road  to  reach  Carter  Hall,  the 
Colonel  rose  to  his  feet  in  indignant  reply  :  "  Any  advantage  ? 
Major,  I  am  surprised  at  you  !  A  place  settled  mo'  than  one 
hundred  years  ago,  belongin'  to  one  of  the  vehy  fust  fam'lies 
of  Virginia,  not  to  be  of  any  advantage  to  a  new  enterprise 
like  this  !  Why,  suh,  it  will  give  an  air  of  respectability  to 
the  whole  thing  that  nothing  else  could  ever  do.  Leave 
out  Caarter  Hall,  suh,  and  you  pa'alyze  the  whole  scheme." 
The  prospectus  for  the  new  railroad,  which  Fitz  had  some- 
what modified  to  meet  the  requirements  of  business,  seemed 
to  the  Colonel  to  be  deficient  in  one  respect,  —  it  provided 
for  no  subscriptions  in  Cartersville,  although  they  were  to  be 


"  Colonel  Carter  of  Carters ville  "         101 

opened  simultaneously  in  New  York,  London,  and  Rich- 
mond. To  Fitzpatrick's  innocent  question  as  to  whether 
there  was  any  money  in  Cartersville,  the  Colonel  proudly 
replied  :  "  No,  suh,  not  much ;  but  we  can  subscribe,  can't 
we  ?  The  name  and  influence  of  our  leadin'  citizens  would 
give  tone  and  dignity  to  any  subscription  list.  Think  of 
this,  suh  ! "  Another  criticism  of  the  document  by  the 
Colonel  was  due  to  Fitzpatrick's  inserted  phrase,  "  full  pro- 
tection guaranteed."  When  the  Colonel  was  told  that  pro- 
tection meant  the  right  to  foreclose  the  mortgage  on  the 
non-payment  of  interest,  he  authoritatively  exclaimed : 
"  Put  yo'  pencil  through  that  line,  quick  —  none  of  that  for 
me.  This  fo'closure  business  has  ruined  haalf  the  gentlemen 
in  our  county,  suh.  But  for  that  foolishness  two  thirds  of 
our  fust  fam'lies  would  still  be  livin'  in  their  homes.  No, 
suh,  strike  it  out !  " 

One  of  the  Colonel's  unique  financial  measures  in  con- 
nection with  his  great  railroad  scheme  was  the  proposed 
issuance  of  Deferred  Debentured  Bonds.  "  No,  gentlemen, 
the  plan  is  not  only  fair,  but  reasonable.  Two  years  is  not 
a  long  period  of  time  in  which  to  foster  a  great  enterprise 
like  the  C.  &  W.  A.  L.  R.  R.,  and  it  is  for  this  purpose  that 
I  issue  the  Deferred  Debentures.  Deferred,  —  put  off; 
Debenture  —  owed.  What  we  owe  we  put  off.  Simple, 
easily  understood,  and  honest."  And  when  the  Major  and 
Fitz  expressed  a  willingness  to  join  him  in  subscribing  for 
the  fifty  thousand  founders'  shares,  the  Colonel's  exhilaration 
rose  to  an  ecstatic  point :  "  You  overwhelm  me,  gentlemen," 
rising  from  his  chair  and  seizing  them  by  the  hands.  .  .  . 
"  Fill  yo'  glasses  and  join  me  in  a  sentiment  that  is  dear  to 
me  as  my  life,  —  '  The  Garden  Spot  of  Virginia  in  search  of 
an  Outlet  to  the  Sea.'  " 


IO2  Provincial  Types  in  the  South 

On  one  of  the  Major's  calls,  when  the  Colonel  himself  was 
unavoidably  detained,  Chad  grew  reminiscent  of  the  good 
old  days  in  Virginia  when  the  Colonel's  father,  General  John 
Carter,  was  alive,  and  when  Chad's  prospective  wife,  Henny, 
brought  him  perilously  near  trouble.  Finding  a  goose  roast- 
ing in  the  big  oven,  Henny  cut  off  a  leg  and  disappeared 
round  the  kitchen  corner  with  the  leg  in  her  mouth.  Hor- 
rified at  what  might  happen  when  "Marse  John"  discovered 
at  dinner  the  lack  of  the  leg  in  the  presence  of  "  quality," 
Chad  attempted  to  deny  the  fact  that  roast  goose  was  in- 
tended for  dinner  and  served  everything  else  but  that. 
When  confronted  with  the  evidence  that  he  helped  pick  the 
goose,  Chad  reluctantly  laid  it  down  on  the  table  with  the 
one  leg  on  the  upper  side.  A  young  lady  guest  chose  a 
goose  leg  instead  of  ham,  and  a  gentleman  guest  asked  for 
the  other  leg.  "  Major,  you  oughter  seen  ole  Marsa  lookin' 
for  de  udder  leg  ob  dat  goose  !  He  rolled  him  ober  on  de 
dish,  dis  way  an'  dat  way,  an'  den  he  jabbed  dat  ole  bone- 
handled  caarvin'-fork  in  him  an'  hel'  him  up  ober  de  dish 
an'  looked  under  him  an'  on  top  ob  him,  an'  den  he  says, 
kinder  sad  like,  '  Chad,  where  is  de  udder  leg  ob  dat 
goose?'  'It  didn't  hab  none,'  say  I.  'You  mean  ter  say, 
Chad,  dat  de  gooses  on  my  plantation  on'y  got  one  leg  ? ' 
'  Some  ob  'em  has  an'  some  ob  em  ain't.  You  see,  Marsa, 
we  got  two  kinds  in  de  pond,  an'  we  Was  a  little  boddered 
to-day,  so  Mammy  Jane  cooked  dis  one  'cause  I  cotched  it 
fust.' "  Whereupon  the  master  remarked  ominously  to 
Chad :  "  I'll  settle  with  you  after  dinner."  After  dinner 
the  master  and  his  guests,  accompanied  by  the  trembling 
Chad,  walked  down  to  the  duck-pond,  and  "  dar  was  de  gooses 
sittin'  on  a  log  in  de  middle  of  dat  ole  green  goose-pond 
wid  one  leg  stuck  down  —  so  —  an'  de  udder  tucked  under 


"Colonel  Carter  of  Cartersville "        103 

de  wing."  Chad  called  the  attention  of  his  master  to  the 
peculiar  fact,  while  all  the  guests  laughed.  " '  Stop,  you  black 
scoun'rel ! '  Marsa  John  says,  his  face  gittin'  white  an'  he 
a-jerkin'  his  handkerchief  from  his  pocket.  'Shoo!'"  — 
"  Major,  I  hope  to  have  my  brains  kicked  out  by  a  lame 
grasshopper  if  ebery  one  ob  dem  gooses  didn't  put  down 
de  udder  foot ! "  With  his  cane  uplifted  to  strike,  the 
master  angrily  exclaimed,  "You  lyin'  nigger,  I'll  show  you," 
when  Chad  cried  out,  " '  Stop,  Marsa  John  !  't  ain't  fair, 
't  ain't  fair.'  '  Why  ain't  it  fair?  '  says  he.  '  'Cause,'  says  I, 
'  you  didn't  say  "  Shoo  !  "  to  de  goose  what  was  on  de  table.'  " 
And  the  next  day  "  Marsa  John  "  told  Chad  he  could  have 
Henny  for  his  wife. 

Upon  the  belated  arrival  of  the  Colonel,  he  told  the  Major, 
with  evident  feeling  in  his  voice,  of  all  Chad's  loyalty  to  the 
house  of  Carter.  "  Do  you  know,  Major,  that  when  I  was  a 
prisoner  at  City  Point  that  darky  tramped  a  hundred  miles 
through  the  coast  swamps  to  reach  me,  crossed  both  lines 
twice,  hung  around  for  three  months  for  his  chance,  and  has 
carried  in  his  leg  ever  since  the  ball  intended  for  me  the 
night  I  escaped  in  his  clothes,  and  he  was  shot  in  mine.  I 
tell  you,  suh,  the  color  of  a  man's  skin  don't  make  much 
diffe'ence  sometimes.  Chad  was  bawn  a  gentleman,  and 
he'll  never  get  over  it." 

Some  of  the  Colonel's  unique  traits  are  illustrated  in  his 
buying  roses  for  his  Aunt  Nancy,  when  she  was  considerately 
and  secretly  paying  his  grocery  bills ;  in  his  drawing  her  a 
note  of  hand  to  relieve  his  sense  of  indebtedness  and  protect 
her  against  personal  loss,  in  which  he  promises  to  pay  on 
demand  six  hundred  dollars,  with  interest  at  six  per  cent, 
"  payable  as  soon  as  possible  "  ;  in  his  swift  challenge  of  old 
Klutchem,  the  broker,  for  alluding  to  the  Colonel's  railroad 


104  Provincial  Types  in  the  South 

securities  as  not  worth  a  yellow  dog ;  in  his  sudden  drawing 
of  his  will  and  bequeathing  to  his  aunt,  "  Ann  Carter,  spin- 
ster," twenty-five  thousand  shares  of  "  Cartersville  and  War- 
rentown  Air  Line  Railroad  "  stock,  —  a  railroad  that  was  as 
yet  only  on  paper  and  in  the  air ;  and  in  his  cool  attempt, 
as  preparation  for  the  duel,  to  snuff,  at  forty  yards,  a  candle 
held  by  the  confident  Chad. 

The  prospective  duel  brought  from  Virginia,  as  a  second 
for  the  Colonel,  Major  Tom  Yancey  of  the  Confederate 
army,  whose  personal  appearance  is  described  as  that  of  "  a 
short,  oily-skinned,  perpetually  perspiring  man  of  forty,  with 
a  decollete"  collar,  a  double-breasted  waistcoat  with  glass 
buttons,  and  skin-tight  light  trousers  held  down  to  a  pair  of 
high-heeled  boots  by  leather  straps.  The  space  between 
his  waistband  and  his  waistcoat  was  made  good  by 
certain  puckerings  of  his  shirt,  anxious  to  escape  the  thral- 
dom of  his  suspenders."  Unfortunately,  the  Colonel's 
challenge  had  failed  to  reach  Mr.  Klutchem,  through  lack 
of  postage ;  and  it  was  then  diplomatically  suggested  by 
Fitzpatrick  that  the  language  used  by  the  satirical  Mr. 
Klutchem  was  really  not  insulting.  Whereupon  this  dialogue 
ensued:  "Did  he  call  you  a  yaller  dog?"  said  Yancey. 
"  No."  "  Call  anybody  connected  with  you  a  yaller  dog  ?  " 
"  Can't  say  that  he  did."  "  Call  yo'  railroad  a  yaller  dog?  " 
"  No,  don't  think  so,"  said  the  Colonel,  now  thoroughly 
confused  and  adrift.  Yancey  consulted  with  "  Jedge  "  Ker- 
foot,  his  companion  from  the  "district  co'te  of  Fairfax 
County,"  and  said  gravely  :  "  Unless  some  mo'  direct  insult 
is  stated,  Colonel,  we  must  agree  with  yo'  friend,  Mr.  Fitz- 
patrick, and  consider  yo'  action  hasty.  Now,  if  you  had 
pressed  the  gemman,  and  he  had  called  you  a  yaller  dog  or 
a  liar,  somethin'  might  be  done.  Why  didn't  you  press 


"Colonel  Carter  of  Carters ville "        105 

him?  "  "  I  did,  suh.  I  told  him  his  statements  were  false 
and  his  manners  vulgar."  "  And  he  did  not  talk  back  ?  " 
"  No,  suh  ;  on'y  laughed."  "  Sneeringly,  and  in  a  way  that 
sounded  like  '  Yo're  another  '?  "  The  Colonel  had  to  con- 
fess to  the  belligerent  Yancey  that  he  could  not  remember 
that  it  was.  And  "  Jedge  "  Kerfoot  formulated  the  general 
verdict :  "  The  prisoner,  Klutchem,  is  discharged  with  a 
reprimand,  and  the  plaintiff,  Caarter,  leaves  the  co'te-room 
without  a  stain  on  his  cha'acter.  The  co'te  will  now  take  a 
recess."  And  the  "Jedge,"  the  Major,  and  Fitzpatrick  dis- 
appeared into  an  underground  apartment  where  they  slaked 
a  true  Southern  thirst.  However,  for  the  poor  Colonel, 
whose  sense  of  what  a  gentleman  should  be  was  keen,  it  was 
now  the  only  proper  thing  to  call  with  Mr.  Fitzpatrick  upon 
Mr.  Klutchem  and  make  a  formal  apology  for  attempting  to 
send  a  challenge  on  insufficient  grounds  for  action. 

When  at  last,  on  the  unexpected  sale  of  his  coal  land  to 
the  English  syndicate,  the  Colonel  actually  became  as  rich 
in  fact  as  he  had  been  in  hopes  and  the  assurance  of  his 
optimistic  nature,  he  was  the  same  man  in  bearing,  manner, 
and  speech  as  he  had  been  in  his  impecunious  days  in 
Bedford  Place ;  the  same  in  grateful  generosity  as  he 
showed  the  faithful  Chad  the  Englishman's  check  and  told 
his  old  servant  there  was  no  more  hard  work  for  him ;  and 
the  same  in  delightful  chivalry  as  he  rose  at  dinner  and 
proposed  the  toast  to  Miss  Nancy,  "  Fill  yo'  glasses,  gentle- 
men, and  drink  to  the  health  of  that  greatest  of  all  blessings, 
—  a  true  Southern  lady  ! "  Surely  Cartersville  lies  in  the 
"garden  spot"  of  Virginia  and  the  Colonel  will  always  find 
an  "outlet"  for  it  in  the  interest  of  American  readers. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

"UNCLE  REMUS:  HIS  SONGS  AND  HIS  SAYINGS;" 
"MINGO,  AND  OTHER  SKETCHES  IN  BLACK  AND 
WHITE"  BY  JOEL  CHANDLER  HARRIS 

DURING  his  earlier  years  as  one  of  the  editorial  writers 
on  the  Atlanta  Constitution  Mr.  Harris  occasionally  enter- 
tained the  other  members  of  the  staff  with  his  stories  of 
plantation  life ;  and  it  occurred  to  the  editor  of  the  paper 
that,  if  these  could  be  put  into  literary  form  and  published 
in  the  Constitution,  they  would  make  a  popular  journalistic 
feature.  After  much  persuasion  Mr.  Harris  wrote  out  some 
of  the  memories  of  his  boyhood  days  in  Putnam  County, 
Georgia,  and  put  them  into  the  mouth  of  an  old  negro 
named  "Uncle  Remus."  These  sketches  attracted  wide 
interest,  and  in  1880  there  was  published  in  book  form  "  Uncle 
Remus :  His  Songs  and  His  Sayings,"  —  a  book  that  dis- 
closed to  the  world  a  unique  character  in  fiction,  and  fixed 
the  fame  of  the  author  not  only  in  this  country  but  also  in 
England.  "Uncle  Remus"  as  a  type  of  his  race  presents 
in  Mr.  Harris's  work  some  of  the  more  unusual  phases  of 
the  negro  character.  As  the  author  in  his  introduction  to 
the  book  modestly  remarks,  "  If  the  language  of  Uncle 
Remus  fails  to  give  vivid  hints  of  the  really  poetic  imagina- 
tion of  the  negro;  if  it  fails  to  embody  the  quaint  and 
homely  humor  which  was  his  most  prominent  characteristic  ; 
if  it  does  not  suggest  a  certain  picturesque  sensitiveness, 
a  curious  exaltation  of  mind  and  temperament  not  to  be 

106 


"  Brer  Rabbit  ain't  see  no  peace  w'atsumever." 

(See  page  63.) 
From  Uncle  Remns.     Copyright  1880,  1895,  by  D.  Appleton  and  Company 


"Uncle  Remus"  107 

defined  by  words,  —  then  I  have  reproduced  the  form  of  the 
dialect  merely,  and  not  the  essence,  and  my  attempt  may 
be  accounted  a  failure."  One  certainly  gets,  in  reading, 
the  qualities  Mr.  Harris  hopes  to  give,  and  also  others, 
—  such  as  the  quaint  superstitions,  the  peculiarly  close 
sympathy  with  the  weaker  of  the  lower  animals,  which 
doubtless  grew  out  of  the  negro's  own  dependent  condition, 
and  his  prejudices  connected  with  caste  and  pride  of  family. 
The  little  boy  to  whom  Uncle  Remus  tells  his  legends  is  a 
product  of  the  reconstruction  that  has  quietly  been  going 
on  in  the  South  since  the  Civil  War,  while  Uncle  Remus 
himself  is  a  surviving  result  of  that  social  and  political 
system  which  the  war  destroyed  or  greatly  modified.  And 
he  is  a  survivor  that  has  only  pleasant  memories  of  the  time 
"  befo'  the  wah." 

It  is  significant  to  notice  that  in  all  the  contests  of  subtlety 
and  wit  between  "  Brer  Rabbit "  on  the  one  hand,  and  the 
bear,  the  wolf,  and  the  fox  on  the  other,  the  rabbit  is  almost 
uniformly  successful,  —  the  hero  is  the  weakest  and  most 
harmless  of  animals.  To  use  the  words  of  Mr.  Harris,  "  It  is 
not  virtue  that  triumphs,  but  helplessness  ;  it  is  not  malice, 
but  mischievousness."  In  other  words,  the  negro's  concep- 
tion of  "  Brer  Rabbit "  seems  to  be  a  sort  of  allegory  in 
which  are  reflected  in  a  measure  the  relations  of  the  black 
man  to  the  dominant  white  race. 

"  Miss  Sally,"  in  search  of  her  seven-year-old  little  boy, 
looked  one  evening  through  the  window  of  Uncle  Remus's 
cabin  and  saw  the  child's  head  resting  against  the  old  man's 
arm.  His  face  was  turned  in  intense  interest  up  to  the  rough, 
weather-beaten  face  of  Uncle  Remus,  who  was  telling  him 
of  the  various  wiles  of  Brer  Rabbit  and  Brer  Fox  in  their 
ceaseless  contests  with  each  other.  They  had  exchanged 


io8  Provincial  Types  in  the  South 

invitations  to  dinner,  and  Brer  Rabbit  in  accepting  the  fox's 
invitation  was  approaching  the  latter's  home  when  he  heard 
groaning  within.  On  opening  the  door  Brer  Rabbit  found 
Brer  Fox  sitting  up  in  a  rocking-chair  all  wrapped  up  in 
flannel  and  looking  "  mighty  weak."  But  he  saw  no  dinner, 
—  only  a  dish-pan,  and  close  beside  it  a  carving-knife.  Brer 
Rabbit  remarked  that  all  signs  pointed  to  chicken  for  dinner ; 
and  when  Brer  Fox  assented,  Brer  Rabbit  pulled  his  mus- 
tache and  asked  whether  the  fox  had  any  calamus  root.  "I 
done  got  so  now  dat  I  can't  eat  no  chicken'  ceppin'  she's 
seasoned  up  wid  calamus  root."  And  thereupon  Brer  Rab- 
bit leaped  out  of  the  door  and  watched  among  the  bushes 
for  Brer  Fox,  who  soon  crept  out  of  the  house  with  his  in- 
valid's disguise  gone  and  was  preparing  to  close  in  on  his 
reluctant  guest.  Suddenly  Brer  Rabbit  cried  out  that  he 
would  just  lay  the  fox's  calamus  root  on  a  neighboring  stump, 
and  that  the  fox  ought  to  get  it  while  it  was  fresh,  and  then 
went  leaping  homeward.  Uncle  Remus's  final  comment 
was  :  "  En  Brer  Fox  ain't  never  kotch  'im  yit.  En  wat's  mo', 
honey,  he  ain't  gwineter." 

The  fox's  most  successful  stratagem  with  Brer  Rabbit  was 
the  device  of  the  "  Tar- Baby,"  but  even  that  was  not  entirely 
successful,  —  at  least  Uncle  Remus  leaves  the  little  boy  and 
the  rest  of  us  in  doubt  as  to  the  final  issue.  Soon  after  the 
calamus  root  episode  Brer  Fox  fixed  up  with  tar  and  tur- 
pentine "  a  contrapshun  "  which  he  called  a  Tar- Baby.  Put- 
ting it  in  the  road,  Brer  Fox  retired  to  the  bushes  to  watch  the 
effects.  Soon  there  came  pacing  down  the  road  Brer  Rab- 
bit—  he  came  "  lippity-clippity,  clippity-lippity  —  dez  ez 
sassy  ez  a  jay-bird."  Suddenly  seeing  the  Tar- Baby,  Brer 
Rabbit  lifted  himself  on  his  "  behime  legs  "  in  curious  aston- 
ishment. " '  Mawnin  ! '  sez  Brer  Rabbit,  sezee  — '  nice  wed- 


"  Uncle  Remus 


109 


der  dis  mawnin'/  sezee.  Tar-Baby  ain't  sayin'  nothin',  en 
Brer  Fox,  he  lay  low.  '  How  duz  yo'  sym'tums  seem  ter 
segashuate?'  sez  Brer  Rabbit,  sezee."  But  the  Tar-Baby 
still  "  ain't  sayin'  nothin',"  and  Brer  Rabbit  offers  to  speak 
louder,  if  this  strange  little  being  is  deaf.  Growing  indig- 
nant, the  rabbit  finally  comes  to  the  conclusion  that  the 
Tar-Baby  is  "  stuck  up  "  and  threatens  her  :  "  Ef  you  don't 
take  off  dat  hat  en  tell  me  howdy,  I'm  gwineter  bus'  you  wide 
open."  At  last,  all  patience  exhausted  by  repeated  ques- 
tionings, Brer  Rabbit  draws  back  and  strikes  the  Tar-Baby 
with  his  fist.  "Right  dar's  whaa  he  broke  his  merlasses 
jug."  His  fist  clung  to  the  Tar-Baby,  and  he  couldn't  pull 
it  loose.  "  Ef  you  don't  lemme  loose,  I'll  knock  you  again," 
said  Brer  Rabbit,  and  with  that  he  struck  the  Tar-Baby 
with  his  other  hand,  and  that  also  stuck. 

"  Tu'n  me  loose,  fo'  I  kick  de  nat'al  stuffm'  outen  you," 
said  the  rabbit;  but  the  Tar-Baby  still  "ain't  sayin'  nothin'," 
but  just  held  on,  and  Brer  Rabbit  lost  also  the  use  of  both 
his  feet.  "  Den  Brer  Rabbit  squall  out  dat  ef  de  Tar-Baby 
don't  tu'n  'im  loose  he  butt  'er  crank-sided.  En  den  he 
butted,  en  his  head  got  stuck."  Whereupon  Brer  Fox,  who 
has  been  lying  low,  saunters  forth  looking  as  innocent  as 
"one  er  yo'  mammy's  mockin'-birds,"  and  remarks  gen- 
ially :  "  Howdy,  Brer  Rabbit.  You  look  sorter  stuck  up 
dis  mawnin'."  And  then  Brer  Fox  rolled  on  the  ground  and 
laughed  and  laughed,  till  he  could  laugh  no  more.  "  I  speck 
you'll  take  dinner  wid  me  dis  time,  Brer  Rabbit.  I  done 
laid  in  some  calamus  root,  en  I  ain't  gwineter  take  no 
skuse,"  said  the  hilarious  fox.  But  whether  the  fox  ate  the 
rabbit  or  not,  Uncle  Remus  refused  to  tell  the  little  boy,  — 
"  Dat's  all  de  fur  de  tale  goes ; "  and  this  autocratic  ending 
was  the  signal  for  the  little  boy  to  "run  'long." 


no  Provincial  Types  in  the  South 

In  half-soling  one  of  his  shoes  Uncle  Remus  was  much 
irritated  by  the  little  boy's  persistent  handling  of  his  awls  and 
hammers  and  knives;  and  this  furnished  the  old  negro  a 
text  for  his  tale  about  "The  Awful  Fate  of  Mr.  Wolf." 
"  Folks  w'at's  allers  pesterin'  people,  en  bodderin'  'longer 
dat  w'at  ain't  dern,  don't  never  come  ter  no  good  eend." 
And  then  the  old  darky  proceeded  to  tell  the  story  of  the 
alliance  of  Brer  Wolf  with  Brer  Fox  against  Brer  Rabbit, 
and  how  he  "  got  kotch  up  wid  —  en  he  got  kotch  up  wid 
monstus  bad."  The  little  boy's  critical  attitude  of  mind 
toward  the  past  and  present  history  of  Brer  Wolf  proved  too 
much  for  Uncle  Remus's  complacent  egotism  as  a  story- 
teller who  could  not  be  doubted,  and  he  threateningly  re- 
minded the  little  fellow  that  his  mother's  voice  would  soon 
be  calling  him,  and  that  his  father  might  possibly  bring  up 
the  rear  "wid  dat  ar  strop  w'at  I  made  fer  'im."  The  child 
laughingly  shook  his  fist  in  the  simple  and  serious  face  of  the 
venerable  old  man,  and  then  relapsed  into  an  attitude  of 
expectant  interest. 

It  seems,  according  to  Uncle  Remus's  narrative,  that  the 
wolf  had  torn  down  a  straw  house  the  rabbit  had  built,  and 
also  a  house  made  of  pine  tops  and  one  of  bark,  —  and  each 
time  a  child  of  Brer  Rabbit's  had  been  lost.  Finally,  Brer 
Rabbit  built  himself  a  house  of  plank,  with  rock  foundations, 
and  could  then  live  in  some  sense  of  security. 

One  day,  with  the  dogs  hard  after  him,  Brer  Wolf  took 
refuge  in  Brer  Rabbit's  house,  and  begged  the  latter  for 
some  place  to  hide  in.  The  rabbit  told  him  to  get  into  a 
big  chest  that  stood  in  the  room,  and  when  the  wolf  was 
inside  and  the  hasp  that  held  the  cover  down  had  been 
shoved  into  place,  Brer  Rabbit,  in  his  exultation  at  having 
Mr.  Wolf  securely  in  his  power,  "  went  ter  de  lookin' -glass, 


"  Uncle  Remus  "  1 1 1 

he  did,  en  wink  at  hisse'f,  en  den  he  draw'd  de  rockin'- 
cheer  in  front  er  de  fier,  he  did,  and  tuck  a  big  chaw  ter- 
barker." 

Soon  from  the  big  chest  came  the  anxious  voice  of  Brer 
Wolf  inquiring  about  the  dogs,  and  Brer  Rabbit  informed 
him  consolingly  that  he  thought  he  had  just  heard  one  of 
them  smelling  round  the  chimney  corner.  Then  Brer  Rab- 
bit filled  a  kettle  with  water  and  put  it  on  the  fire.  "  I'm 
fixin'  ter  make  you  a  nice  cup  er  tea,  Brer  Wolf."  Next  he 
proceeded  to  bore  some  holes  in  the  cover  of  the  big  chest, 
to  give,  as  he  said,  some  chance  to  the  wolf  to  get  breath. 
Then  Brer  Rabbit  increased  the  fire,  with  the  purpose,  as  he 
told  the  wolf,  of  keeping  him  from  getting  cold.  Brer 
Wolf,  in  his  anxious  curiosity  to  know  what  was  going  on, 
next  inquired  what  Brer  Rabbit  was  then  engaged  in.  "  I'm 
a  tellin'  my  chilluns,"  calmly  returned  the  rabbit,  "  w'at  a 
nice  man  you  is,  Brer  Wolf."  "  En  de  chilluns,"  Uncle 
Remus  smilingly  continued,  "  dey  had  ter  put  der  han's  on 
der  moufs  fer  ter  keep  fum  laffin'." 

Then  Brer  Rabbit  took  the  kettle  and  began  to  pour  the 
boiling  water  through  the  holes  in  the  cover  of  the  chest, 
and  this  dialogue  ensued  :  "W'at  dat  I  feel,  Brer  Rabbit?" 
"You  feels  de  fleas  a  bitin',  Brer  Wolf."  "Dey  er  bitin' 
mighty  hard,  Brer  Rabbit."  "Tu'n  over  on  de  udder  side, 
Brer  Wolf."  "  W'at  dat  I  feel  now,  Brer  Rabbit?  "  "Still 
you  feels  de  fleas,  Brer  Wolf."  "  Dey  er  eatin'  me  up, 
Brer  Rabbit,"  —  and  these  were  the  last  words  of  Mr.  Wolf, 
"kase  de  scaldin'  water  done  de  bizness."  And  Uncle 
Remus  told  the  little  boy,  with  a  confirmatory  touch  of 
realism,  that  if  he  should  go  to  Brer  Rabbit's  house  he 
might  still  find  Brer  Wolfs  hide  "  hangin'  in  de  back  po'ch, 
en  all  bekase  he  wuz  so  bizzy  wid  udder  fo'kses  doin's." 


112  Provincial  Types  in  the  South 

In  "  A  Story  of  the  War,"  largely  told  in  the  dialect  of 
Uncle  Remus,  and  also  in  his  shrewd  and  humorous  "  Say- 
ings," contained  in  the  same  volume,  various  aspects  of  the 
negro's  peculiar  character  and  mental  habits  are  brought 
out  with  a  quiet  but  telling  art  that  readers  have  come  to 
expect  in  Mr.  Harris's  writings. 

Mr.  Howells's  suggestion  that  too  exclusive  a  stress  has 
been  laid  upon  Mr.  Harris's  authentic  portrayal  of  negro 
character,  to  the  neglect  of  his  sketches  of  Southern  white 
types,  brings  to  mind  his  story  called  "  At  Teague  Poteet's," 
which  is  included  in  the  volume  entitled  "  Mingo,  and 
Other  Sketches  in  Black  and  White." 

High  up  on  Hog  Mountain  and  overlooking  Gullettsville, 
lay  the  fifty-acre  farm  of  Teague  Poteet,  a  Georgia 
"  cracker  "  ;  and  at  the  close  of  the  Civil  Wrar,  little  Sis 
Poteet,  his  daughter,  had  grown  old  enough  to  need  an 
education.  But  when  her  father  suggested  that  it  was  time 
for  her  to  become  a  lady  by  getting  an  education  down  in 
Gullettsville,  Sis  objected  in  very  vigorous  terms  :  "  Pap,  do 
you  reckon  I'm  fool  enough  to  traipse  down  to  Gullettsville 
an'  mix  with  them  people,  wearin'  cloze  like  these  ?  Do  you 
reckon  I'm  fool  enough  to  make  myself  the  laughin'-stock 
for  them  folks?"  And  Teague  was  quick  to  see  the  point 
so  emphatically  made  by  his  self-willed  daughter.  He  took 
down  his  rifle,  whistled  up  his  dogs,  and  tramped  skyward 
for  game.  Passing  out  through  his  horse-lot,  he  came  acci- 
dentally upon  the  cap  and  worm  of  a  whisky  still,  and 
turning  the  apparatus  over  with  his  foot,  he  remarked  with  a 
chuckle :  "  I'll  thes  about  take  you  an'  set  up  a  calico 
factory.  I'll  heat  you  up  an'  make  you  spin  silk  an'  split  it 
into  ribbens."  And  so  whisky,  in  the  strange  movement 
of  civilization,  was  to  educate  Sis  Poteet. 


"Uncle  Remus"  113 

Sis,  having  an  unusual  brightness  of  mind  and  a  peculiar 
beauty  of  face  and  figure,  became  a  great  favorite  at  the 
academy  in  Gullettsville,  and  in  time  became  as  thoroughly 
educated  as  that  somewhat  limited  institution  could  be  ex- 
pected to  make  her,  for  she  was  ambitious  and  improved 
her  opportunities  to  the  utmost.  She  rode  from  the  Moun- 
tain to  the  Valley  and  from  the  Valley  to  the  Mountain  "  in 
profound  ignorance  of  the  daily  sensation  she  created  among 
the  young  men  of  Gullettsville,"  to  whom  her  beauty  and 
unconscious  grace  were  a  sort  of  revelation.  It  was  only 
when  she  met  Philip  Woodward,  —  a  United  States  deputy 
marshal  sent  to  arrange  for  a  successful  raid  upon  the  moon- 
shiners of  Hog  Mountain,  who  included  among  their  num- 
ber her  own  father,  —  that  Sis  began  to  know  the  attractions 
of  a  personal  magnetism  that  belonged  to  a  handsome,  quick- 
witted, and  adventurous  young  man  familiar  with  the  outside 
world.  Woodward  was  staying  in  Gullettsville  ostensibly  to 
look  up  the  title  of  a  land- lot  somewhere  in  the  vicinity  of 
Hog  Mountain,  which  was  practically  all  that  remained  of 
an  inheritance  swept  away  by  the  war.  There  was  a  tradi- 
tion or  rumor  that  the  land-lot  covered  a  vein  of  gold,  and 
the  desire  to  investigate  this  was  a  part  of  the  young  man's 
business,  though  strictly  subordinate  to  his  function  as  a 
deputy  sheriff.  This  interest  in  the  possibilities  of  his  land- 
lot  used  to  take  young  Woodward  back  and  forth  between 
Gullettsville  and  Hog  Mountain,  and  what  so  natural  in  that 
informal  region  but  that  he  should  now  and  then  meet  Sis 
Poteet  on  her  way  to  school.  Sis  was  a  surprise  to  him,  in 
that  region  of  social  destitution,  and  her  intelligence  and 
wild  beauty  in  some  way  won  his  heart.  And  here  was  a 
United  States  deputy  sheriff  paid  to  hunt  down  the  moon- 
shiners, and  at  the  same  time  hopelessly  in  love  with  a 
i 


114  Provincial  Types  in  the  South 

daughter  of  one  of  them  !  In  this  clash  between  the  gov- 
ernment and  his  heart,  all  he  could  do  was  to  resign,  but 
his  resignation  was  not  accepted. 

In  his  advances  as  a  wooer  of  Sis  Poteet,  Woodward  soon 
found  it  necessary  to  drop  all  airs  of  patronage,  —  here  was 
a  woman  of  independent  mind,  frankness,  and  splendid  free- 
dom of  life,  —  as  the  scholarly  principal  of  the  academy  in 
Gullettsville  once  said,  she  was  "superior  to  her  books." 
In  his  despairing  efforts  to  win  her,  he  finally  told  her  that 
he  had  failed  to  hunt  up  blockade  whisky,  that  he  had 
failed  in  his  search  for  gold,  and  that  even  his  resignation 
was  a  failure.  At  such  disclosures  Sis  started  up  in  a  rage 
crying,  "  Oh,  you  mean,  sneaking  wretch ! "  and  passed 
swiftly  through  the  kitchen,  seized  a  horn  hanging  on  the 
wall,  and  ran  out  into  the  darkness.  Suddenly  were  heard  the 
notes  of  a  horn,  —  short,  sharp,  and  strenuous,  —  thrice 
repeated,  and  then  a  little  later  repeated  three  times  again. 
And  all  the  dwellers  on  Hog  Mountain  knew  what  it  meant, 
—  it  was  the  notification  that  the  moonshiners  would  soon 
be  raided  by  the  revenue  men. 

At  the  sound  of  the  horn  Teague  Poteet,  who  owned  two 
stills  himself,  was  looking  after  some  "  doublings  "  ;  but  all 
he  did  was  to  pause  and  listen  and  smile.  Then  he  re- 
marked, "  Sis  talks  right  out  in  meetin' ; "  and  added  by 
way  of  explanation  that  the  message  of  the  horn  was  to  the 
effect  that  the  raiders  would  pass  his  own  door.  "An'  I 
reckon  in  reason  I  oughter  be  home  when  they  go  past. 
They  useter  be  a  kinder  coolness  betweenst  me  an'  them 
revenue  fellers."  In  truth,  the  news  of  an  approaching  raid 
was  like  the  taste  of  illicit  whisky  to  these  resolute  men,  —  it 
had  a  sort  of  exhilarating  effect,  and  meant  perhaps  a  week  of 
diversion  in  avoiding  and  fighting  the  government  posse. 


"Uncle  Remus"  115 

"Come,  Tip,"  said  Teague,  "  yess  shet  up  shop."  "  Ef 
Sis  ain't  a  caution,"  he  said,  a  little  later,  as  he  moved  about, 
putting  things  to  rights.  "  Ef  Sis  ain't  a  caution,  you  kin 
shoot  me.  They  hain't  no  mo'  tellin'  wher'  Sis  picked  up 
'bout  thish  'ere  raid  than  nothin'  in  the  worl'.  Dang  me 
ef  I  don't  b'lieve  the  gal's  glad  when  a  raid's  a-comin'. 
Wi'  Sis,  hit's  movement,  movement,  day  in  an'  day  out. 
They  hain't  nobody  knows  that  gal  less'n  it's  me.  She 
knows  how  to  keep  things  a-gwine." 

And  then  the  proud  father  indulged  in  some  domestic 
reminiscence.  "  Sometimes  she  runs  an'  meets  me,  an' 
says,  se'  she  :  '  Pap,  mammy's  in  the  dumps ;  yess  you  an' 
me  make  out  we  er  quollin'.  Hit'll  sorter  stir  'er  up  ' ;  an' 
then  Sis,  she'll  light  in,  an'  by  the  time  we  git  in  the  house, 
she's  a-scoldin'  an'  a-sassin'  an'  I'm  a-cussin',  an'  airter 
awhile  hit  gits  so  hot  an'  natchul-like  that  I  thes  has  ter  drag 
Sis  out  behin'  the  chimbly  and  buss  'er  to  make  certain  an' 
shore  that  she  ain't  accidentally  flew  off  the  han'le.  Bless 
your  soul  an'  body  !  she's  a  caution  !  " 

To  the  inquiry  of  Uncle  Jake  as  to  what  Puss  Poteet,  the 
mother,  was  doing  meanwhile,  Teague  replied  with  a  laugh  : 
"  Oh,  Puss  !  Puss,  she  th$s  sets  thar  a-chawin'  away  at  'er 
snuff,  an'  a-knittin'  away  at  'er  socks  tell  she  thinks  I'm 
a-pushin'  Sis  too  clost,  an'  then  she  blazes  out  an'  blows  me 
up.  Airter  that,"  Teague  continued,  "things  gits  more 
homelike.  Ef  't  wa'n't  fer  me  an'  Sis,  I  reckon  Puss  'ud 
teetotally  fret  'erself  away."  In  wise  comment  Uncle  Jake 
added,  as  he  took  another  dram :  "  St.  Paul  —  St.  Paul 
says  ther'  er  divers  an'  many  wimmin,  an'  I  reckon  he 
know'd.  Ther'  er  some  you  kin  fret  an'  some  you  can't. 
Ther's  my  ole  'oman;  more  espeshually  she's  one  you 
can't." 


n6  Provincial  Types  in  the  South 

On  the  advice  of  Teague  Poteet  the  ex-deputy,  Wood- 
ward, who  was  spending  the  night  at  Poteet's,  joined  the 
band  of  moonshiners  that  were  starting  out  to  defy  the 
sheriffs  posse.  He  carried  himself  well  and  was  protected 
from  a  quarrel  by  Teague  himself.  The  posse  was  misled 
by  the  manufactured  report  of  a  Jewish  peddler  that  Teague 
Poteet  had  been  arrested  and  taken  to  Atlanta  by  a  man 
named  Woodward,  and  the  posse  hastened  toward  that  city 
to  share  in  the  honor  of  the  capture.  On  their  way  down 
the  mountain  one  of  their  number  recklessly  shot  a  fifteen- 
year-old  boy  who  was  out  squirrel-hunting,  and  this  so 
enraged  the  mountaineers  that  when  Woodward  returned 
to  Poteet's  he  was  strongly  advised  to  leave  the  region  at 
once. 

The  effect  on  Sis  of  Woodward's  sudden  departure  was 
a  mystery  to  her  father.  She  became  variable  in  her  moods, 
sometimes  as  gay  as  the  birds  in  the  trees,  and  sometimes 
taciturn  and  apparently  depressed.  As  Teague  described 
it,  "  One  minnit  hit's  Sis,  an'  the  nex'  hit's  some  un  else." 
He  talked  with  his  wife  Puss  about  it,  but  got  little  conso- 
lation, for  she  felt  that  she  was  somewhat  neglected  in  the 
attention  given  her  attractive  daughter.  "  It's  Sis,  Sis,  Sis, 
all  the  time,  an'  eternally.  Ef  the  calf  s  fat,  the  ole  cow 
ain't  got  much  choice  betwixt  the  quogmire  an'  the  tan-vat." 

Sis  once  irrelevantly  asked  her  father  if  he  liked  Mr. 
Woodward,  and  his  reply  had  no  uncertain  sound :  "  Well, 
I  tell  you  what,  he  had  mighty  takin'  ways.  Look  in  his 
eye,  an'  you  wouldn't  see  no  muddy  water ;  an'  he  had  grit. 
They  hain't  no  two  ways  about  that."  All  of  his  talks  with 
Sis  finally  swung  round  to  the  subject  of  Woodward,  and 
Teague  began  vaguely  to  suspect  that  possibly  Woodward 
had  wronged  her.  He  went  to  Atlanta  with  a  revolver  in 


"Uncle  Remus  "  117 

his  pocket,  bent  on  finding  out  from  Woodward  himself  the 
true  condition  of  things.  Woodward  accidentally  met  him, 
took  him  to  his  room,  and  asked  him  in  an  embarrassed 
way  if  he  thought  his  daughter  would  be  willing  to  marry 
him.  Whereupon,  vastly  relieved,  the  old  mountaineer 
replied :  "  Lem  me  tell  you  the  honest  truth,  Cap,"  placing 
his  hand  kindly  on  the  young  man's  shoulder ;  "  I  might 
'low  she  would,  an'  I  might  'low  she  wouldn't ;  but  I'm 
erbleege  to  tell  you  that  I  dunno  nothin'  'bout  that  gal  no 
more  'n  ef  I  hadn't  a-never  seed  'er.  Wimmin  is  mighty 
kuse."  Some  of  Sis's  actions  were  inexplicable,  but  finally 
she  responded  with  all  the  strength  of  her  nature  to  the 
manly  love  of  Woodward.  He  was  strongly  in  favor  of  a 
quiet  wedding,  but  Teague  had  different  views.  "Why, 
good  Lord,  Cap  !  "  he  exclaimed,  "what  'ud  the  boys  say? 
Poteet's  gal  married  an'  no  stools  [invitations]  give  out ! 
No,  siree  !  Not  much.  We  hain't  that  stripe  up  here, 
Cap.  We  hain't  got  no  quality  ways,  but  we  allers  puts 
on  the  pot  when  comp'ny  comes.  Me  an'  Sis  an'  Puss 
hain't  had  many  weddin's  'mongst  us,  an'  we're  thes  a-gwine 
to  try  an'  put  the  bes'  foot  foremos'."  When  Hog  Mountain 
heard  the  news,  sent  by  special  messenger  with  little  pink 
missives  written  by  Sis,  it  was  as  proud  as  Teague  himself. 

Certainly  Sis  and  Puss  and  Teague,  Mrs.  Hightower  and 
the  bibulous  Uncle  Jake  Norris,  are  a  "  peculiar  people,"  but 
they  have  found  in  Mr.  Harris  an  author  who  appreciates 
their  qualities,  and  sees  their  deficiencies  in  a  genial,  hu- 
morous light. 


CHAPTER  IX 

"THE  GRANDISSIMES "  BY  GEORGE  W.  CABLE 

MR.  CABLE  found  in  the  influence  of  slavery  and  the  caste 
spirit  upon  Creole  life  in  New  Orleans,  at  the  opening  of  the 
last  century,  a  virgin  field  that  has  yielded  to  American 
fiction  a  highly  artistic  and  captivating  book  in  "  The  Gran- 
dissimes."  Notwithstanding  a  certain  resentment  on  the 
part  of  the  Creoles  of  the  South  against  Mr.  Cable's  some- 
times satirical  but  always  sympathetic  portrayal  of  their  race, 
they  should  count  themselves  fortunate  in  having  so  skillful 
an  artist  and  so  fair  a  man  to  perpetuate  in  exquisite  liter- 
ary form  such  charming  qualities  as  are  found  in  types  like 
Aurore  and  Clotilde  and  Honore  Grandissime ;  while  Raoul 
Innerarity,  Palmyre  Philosophe,  Clemence,  and  Agricola, 
though  less  distinctly  individualized  perhaps,  are  yet  unique 
additions  to  our  understanding  of  New  Orleans  life  at  the 
time  of  the  French  cession  of  Louisiana. 

It  was  at  the  bal  masque,  given  for  charity,  in  the  Theatre 
St.  Philippe  of  New  Orleans  in  the  fall  of  1803  that  the  beau- 
tiful Aurore  Nancanou  suddenly  unmasked  herself  to  Honore 
Grandissime,  on  condition  that  before  the  following  night 
he  should  pay  into  the  hands  of  the  managers  two  hundred 
and  fifty  dollars  for  sweet  charity's  sake.  And  Honor£  was 
more  than  repaid,  although  he  saw  only  a  stranger,  —  the 
last  of  the  great  Creole  family  of  De  Grapion,  the  long-time 

118 


"  The  Grandissimes  "  119 

rivals  to  the  Grandissimes.  She  was  a  young  widow,  living 
a  secluded  life  of  poverty  in  New  Orleans  with  her  daughter 
Clotilde,  and  he  was  the  ablest  and  most  progressive  Creole 
in  the  famous  family  of  the  Grandissimes. 

Aurore  Nancanou  and  her  daughter  lived  at  No.  19  rue 
Bienville,  in  the  right-hand  half  of  a  single-story,  low-roofed 
tenement,  washed  with  yellow  ocher.  The  bedchamber  of 
the  cook  was  the  kitchen  and  her  bed  the  floor.  The  only 
other  protector  of  the  house  was  a  hound,  the  aim  of  whose 
life  was  to  get  thrust  out  of  the  ladies'  apartments  every  fif- 
teen minutes.  They  were  living  in  evident  poverty,  though 
neatness,  order,  and  excellence  were  prevalent  qualities  in 
all  the  details  of  the  interior.  The  furniture  was  old-fashioned, 
rich,  French,  and  imported ;  the  carpets,  though  not  new, 
were  not  cheap ;  bits  of  crystal  and  silver,  here  and  there, 
were  as  bright  as  they  were  antiquated ;  and  the  brasswork 
was  brilliantly  burnished.  Their  poverty  was  in  a  measure 
self-inflicted.  Aurore's  husband,  in  gambling  with  Agricola 
Fusilier,  uncle  of  Honor6  Grandissime,  had  staked  and  lost 
his  whole  plantation,  including  the  slaves,  and  having  accused 
Agricola  of  cheating  and  having  been  challenged  to  a  duel, 
he  fell  dead  at  the  first  fire  of  Agricola's  pistol.  Agricola 
offered  to  restore  the  whole  estate,  slaves  and  all,  if  only  the 
widow,  Aurore,  would  sign  a  document  to  the  effect  that  she 
believed  the  stakes  had  been  fairly  won.  But  her  Creole 
pride  refused,  —  that  Creole  pride  of  which  Dr.  Keene, 
Aurore's  American  physician,  significantly  said,  as  if  making 
a  diagnosis  :  "  Show  me  any  Creole,  or  any  number  of 
Creoles,  in  any  sort  of  contest,  and  right  down  at  the 
foundation  of  it  all,  I  will  find  you  this  same  preposterousr 
apathetic,  fantastic,  suicidal  pride.  It  is  as  lethargic  and 
ferocious  as  an  alligator." 


I2O  Provincial  Types  in  the  South 

In  the  six  months  that  Aurora  and  Clotilda  had  been 
living  in  their  present  abode  it  was  not  surprising  that  their 
neighbors  had  not  been  able  to  decide  which  was  the  fairer. 
"  If  some  young  enthusiast  compares  the  daughter  —  in  her 
eighteenth  year  —  to  a  bursting  blush  rosebud  full  of  promise, 
some  older  one  immediately  retorts  that  the  other  —  in  her 
thirty-fifth  —  is  the  red,  red,  full-blown,  faultless  joy  of  the 
garden.  If  one  says  the  maiden  has  the  dew  of  youth,  — 
'  But ! '  cry  two  or  three  mothers  in  a  breath,  '  that  other 
one,  child,  will  never  grow  old.  With  her  it  will  always  be 
morning.  That  woman  is  going  to  last  forever  ;  ha-a-a-a  !  — 
even  longer  ! '" 

The  reception  of  callers  on  Monday  was  always  in  Creole 
eyes  an  unfortunate  event,  to  be  guarded  against  only  by 
smearing  the  front  walk  or  "  the  banquette  "  with  Venetian 
red.  And  this  particular  Monday  the  ominous  caller  on 
mother  and  daughter  proved  to  be  an  errand-boy,  who 
slipped  a  missive  under  the  door.  It  read  as  follows  :  — 

"NEW  ORLEANS,  20  Feb're,  1804. 

"  MADAME  NANCANOU  :  I  muss  oblige  to  ass  you  for  rent 
of  that  Rouse  whare  you  living,  it  is  at  number  19  Bienville 
street  whare  I  do  not  received  thos  rent  from  you  not  since 
tree  mons  and  I  demand  you  this  is  mabe  thirteen  time. 
And  I  give  to  you  notice  of  19  das  writen  in  Anglish  as  the 
new  law  requi.  That  witch  the  law  make  necessare  only 
for  15  das,  and  when  you  not  pay  me  those  rent  in  19  das 
till  the  tense  of  Marh  I  will  rekes  you  to  move  out.  That 
witch  make  me  to  be  very  sorry.  I  have  the  honor  to 

remain,  Madam, 

"  Your  humble  servant, 

"  H.  GRANDISSIME, 

"perl.  F." 


"  The  Grandissimes  "  121 

The  signature  was  supposedly  that  of  the  man  to  whom 
Aurore  had  laughingly  unmasked  at  the  ball  for  two  hundred 
and  fifty  dollars  to  be  paid  to  charity,  but  it  was  in  reality 
that  of  his  quadroon  brother,  the  rentier,  f.  m.  c.  (free  man 
of  color).  So  that  Aurore's  tearful  scorn  on  reading  the 
letter  was  misdirected,  though  just  as  intense.  "  H.  Gran- 
dissime  !  Loog  ad  'im  ! "  She  held  the  letter  out  before 
her  as  if  she  were  lifting  something  alive  by  the  back  of  the 
neck,  and  to  strengthen  her  indignation  she  used  the  hated 
English  language  enjoined  by  the  new  courts.  "  Loog  ad 
'im  !  dat  ridge  gen'leman  oo  give  so  mudge  money  to  de 
'ozpill !  "  "  Bud,  maman"  suggested  her  daughter  appeas- 
ingly,  " ee  do  nod  know  'ow  we  is  poor."  "Ah  !  "  retorted 
Aurore,  "par  example  !  Non  ?  Ee  thingue  we  is  ridge, 
eh?  Ligue  his  oncle,  eh?  Ee  thing  so,  too,  eh?"  She 
cast  upon  her  daughter  the  withering  look  she  intended  for 
Agricola  Fusilier,  —  the  Grandissime  who  shot  her  husband 
in  the  duel  and  kept  their  estate,  —  and  added  scornfully, 
"You  wan'  to  tague  the  pard  of  dose  Grandissime?'" 
Clotilde,  with  a  look  of  agony  on  her  face,  replied :  "  No, 
bud  a  man  wad  godd  some  'ouses  to  rend,  muz  ee  nod 
boun'  to  ged  'is  rend?  "  Whereupon  the  mother  ironically 
exclaimed  :  "  Boun'  to  ged  —  ah  !  yez  ee  muz  do  'is  possible 
to  ged  'is  rend.  Oh  !  certain/**.  Ee  is  ridge,  bud  ee  need 
a  lill  money,  bad,  bad.  Fo'  w'at?"  And  then  Aurore 
rose  to  her  feet  excitedly  and  made  a  show  of  unfastening 
her  dress  for  her  daughter  to  carry  off  to  satisfy  the  usurious 
demands  of  the  Grandissimes.  But  the  daughter's  sudden 
tears  brought  the  repentant  mother  to  her  knees ;  she  drew 
her  child's  head  into  her  bosom,  and  wept  afresh.  Then 
she  told  her  daughter  that  she  was  going  directly  to  Honor£ 
Grandissime  to  demand  justice ;  but  instead  she  went 


Provincial  Types  in  the  South 

to  consult  Palmyre  Philosophe,  the  worker  of  voudou 
charms. 

The  room  which  Aurora  —  to  use  Mr.  Cable's  preferred 
spelling  —  entered  had  furniture  of  a  rude,  heavy  pattern, 
Creole-made ;  the  lofty  bedstead  was  spread  and  hung  with 
a  blue  stuff  showing  through  a  web  of  white  needlework. 
"  The  brazen  feet  of  the  chairs  were  brightly  burnished,  as 
were  the  brass  mountings  of  the  bedstead  and  the  brass 
globes  on  the  cold  andirons.  Curtains  of  blue  and  white 
hung  at  the  single  window.  The  floor,  from  habitual 
scrubbing  with  the  common  weed  which  politeness  has  to 
call  Helenium  autumnale,  was  stained  a  bright  clean  yellow. 
On  it  were  here  and  there,  in  places,  white  mats  woven  of 
bleached  palmetto  leaf."  There  was  besides  a  singular  bit 
of  fantastic  carving,  —  a  small  table  of  dark  mahogany 
supported  on  the  upward-writhing  images  of  three  scaly 
serpents. 

A  dwarf  Congo  woman,  black  as  soot,  ushered  in  Aurora, 
who  found  Palmyre  sitting  beside  this  table.  Though  it 
was  February,  Palmyre  was  dressed  in  white.  "  That  barbaric 
beauty  which  had  begun  to  bud  twenty  years  before  was 
now  in  perfect  bloom.  The  united  grace  and  pride  of  her 
movement  was  inspiring,  but  —  what  shall  we  say  ?  —  feline  ? 
It  was  a  femininity  without  humanity,  —  something  that 
made  her,  with  all  her  superbness,  a  creature  that  one  would 
want  to  find  chained."  These  two  women  had  been  chil- 
dren together  on  the  De  Grapion  plantation,  and  their 
greeting  was  joyously  cordial  as  they  advanced  toward  each 
other,  laughing  and  talking  in  their  old-time  French. 

Aurora's  pretended  purpose  in  consulting  the  voudou 
worker  of  charms  was  to  discover  a  means  of  getting  her 
rent  money;  but  Palmyre  was  quick  to  discover  that  the 


"  The  Grandissimes  "  123 

fluttering  little  widow  was  really  in  love  and  wanted  reas- 
surance that  her  heart's  desire  might  sometime  be  realized. 
The  black  dwarf  brought  in  a  little  pound-cake  and  cordial, 
a  tumbler  half  filled  with  the  strop  naturdle  of  the  cane 
sugar,  and  a  small  piece  of  candle  of  the  kind  made  from 
the  fragrant  green  wax  of  the  candleberry  myrtle.  "  These 
were  set  upon  the  small  table,  the  bit  of  candle  standing, 
lighted,  in  the  tumbler  of  sirup,  the  cake  on  a  plate,  the 
cordial  in  a  wine-glass."  As  Palmyre  closed  out  all  day- 
light from  the  room  and  received  the  offering  of  silver  that 
"averted  guillons  (interferences  of  outside  imps)  "  Aurora 
"  went  down  upon  her  knees  with  her  gaze  fixed  on  the 
candle's  flame,  and  silently  called  on  Assonquer  (the  imp 
of  good  fortune)  to  cast  his  snare  in  her  behalf  around  the 
mind  and  heart  of —  she  knew  not  whom."  When  the 
flame  rose  clear  and  long  it  was  a  sign  that  the  imp  was 
on  her  side,  but  when  it  sputtered  Aurora  trembled.  The 
end  of  the  charred  wick  suddenly  curled  down  and  twisted 
away  from  the  devotee,  and  her  hope  died  down  with  it; 
but  the  tall  figure  of  Palmyre  intervened,  the  flame  brightened 
into  a  cone,  and  once  more  the  wick  turned  down,  —  but 
fortunately  this  time  in  the  direction  of  Aurora.  It  finally 
fell  through  the  exhausted  wax  and  went  out  in  the  sirup. 
This  was  all;  and  then  the  charm  worker  handed  Aurora 
some  basil  to  hold  between  her  lips  as  she  walked  home- 
ward. To  the  departing  and  agitated  little  widow  Palmyre 
Philosophe  ominously  exclaimed :  "  These  things  that  you 
want,  Momselle  Aurore,  are  easy  to  bring.  You  have  no 
charms  working  against  you.  But,  oh  !  I  wish  to  God  I 
could  work  the  curse  /want  to  work  !  "  Her  blazing  eyes, 
her  heaving  bosom,  and  her  clenched  hand  lifted  upward, 
reenforced  her  vengeful  vow :  "  I  would  give  this  right  hand 


124  Provincial  Types  in  the  South 

off  at  the  wrist  to  catch  Agricola  Fusilier  where  I  could  work ' 
him  a  curse  !  But  I  shall ;  I  shall  some  day  be  revenged  !  " 
The  most  delightfully  inconsequential  and  free-hearted 
character  in  the  book  is  Raoul  Innerarity,  cousin  of  Honor£ 
Grandissime,  who  suddenly  appeared  in  the  drug  store  of 
Joseph  Frowenfeld,  the  immigrant,  where  various  articles 
were  wont  to  be  left  for  sale.  Behind  him  came  a  little 
black  boy  carrying  a  large  rectangular  package.  Raoul  is 
described  as  "  a  young,  auburn-curled,  blue-eyed  man, 
whose  adolescent  buoyancy,  as  much  as  his  delicate,  silver- 
buckled  feet  and  clothes  of  perfect  fit,  pronounced  him 
all-pure  Creole."  Advancing  like  a  schoolboy  coming  in 
after  recess,  Raoul  announced  to  Mr.  Frowenfeld  :  "  I  'ave 
somet'ing  beauteeful  to  place  into  yo'  window."  Tearing 
away  the  wrappings,  he  disclosed  a  painting,  which  he 
balanced  at  arm's  length  while  he  admired,  and  watched 
the  effect  on  the  proprietor  of  the  pharmacy.  Frowenfeld 
gazed  long  and  silently,  as  if  in  dumb  amazement,  and  then 
quietly  asked:  "What  is  it?"  "Louisiana  rif-using  to 
hanter  de  h-Union  !  "  replied  the  ecstatic  Creole.  Joseph 
silently  wondered  at  Louisiana's  anatomy,  and  then  remarked 
that  the  subject  was  allegorical.  " Allegoricon ?  No,  sir! 
Allegoricon  never  saw  that  pigshoe.  If  you  insist  to  know 
who  make  dat  pigshoe  —  de  hartis'  stan'  bif-ore  you ! " 
And  Raoul,  the  proud,  continued  :  "  'Tis  de  work  of  me, 
Raoul  Innerarity,  cousin  to  de  distingwish  Honor£  Grandis- 
sime. I  swear  to  you,  sir,  on  stack  of  Bible'  as  'igh  as  yo' 
head  !  "  When  asked  if  he  wanted  the  picture  put  into  the 
window  on  sale,  Raoul  hesitatingly  replied  :  "  'Sieur  Frowen- 
fel',  I  think  it  is  a  foolishness  to  be  too  proud,  eh  ?  I  want 
you  to  say,  '  My  frien',  'Sieur  Innerarity,  never  care  to  sell 
anything;  'tis  for  egshibbyshun  ; '  mats  —  when  somebody 


"  The  Grandissimes  "  125 

look  at  it,  so,"  Raoul  cast  upon  his  work  a  look  of  languish- 
ing covetousness,  "  You  say,  'foudre  tonnere  !  what  de  dev'  ! 
—  I  take  dat  ris-pon-sibble-ty  —  you  can  have  her  for  two 
hun'red  fifty  dollah  ! '  Better  not  be  too  proud,  eh,  'Sieur 
FrowenfeP  ?  " 

Raoul  then  proceeded  to  show  how  thoroughly  the  artistic 
ideal  had  gotten  hold  of  him  by  explaining  that  only  a  week 
before  he  was  making  out  bills  of  lading  for  his  cousin 
Honore",  "  an'  now  I  ham  a  hartis'  !  So  soon  I  foun'  dat,  I 
say,  '  Cousin  Honor6  ...  I  never  goin'  to  do  anoder  lick 
o'  work  so  long  I  live ;  adieu.'  "  As  an  artist  M.  Raoul 
Innerarity  was  a  crude  specimen  of  laughable  Creole  egotism, 
but  as  a  drug  clerk  for  Mr.  Joseph  Frowenfeld,  —  a  student 
of  the  community,  —  the  irrepressible  Creole  was  "  a  key,  a 
lamp,  a  lexicon,  a  microscope,  a  tabulated  statement,  a  book 
of  heraldry,  a  city  directory,  a  glass  of  wine,  a  Book  of 
Days,  a  pair  of  wings,  a  comic  almanac,  a  diving  bell,  a 
Creole  veritas" 

Mr.  Joseph  Frowenfeld's  first  call  upon  Aurora  and 
Clotilde  Nancanou  discloses  his  own  rational  and  equitable 
nature,  while  it  serves  to  bring  out  as  by  a  foil  the  deliciously 
amiable  and  scintillating  qualities  of  the  Creole  mother  and 
daughter,  whom  Mr.  Cable  has  painted  with  so  deft  and 
loving  a  touch.  The  story  of  "  Bras-Coupe","  told  simultane- 
ously by  Honore  Grandissime  and  Raoul  Innerarity,  is  a 
series  of  pictures  drawn  in  blood  that  present  with  startling 
effect  the  almost  incredible  horrors  inherent  in  the  savagery 
of  slavery.  It  helps  to  account  for  the  present  uncanny 
and  dangerous  characteristics  of  Palmyre  Philosophe,  the 
weaver  of  voudou  charms,  and  suggests  causes  that  later  may 
lead  to  the  undoing  of  that  pompous  embodiment  of  unre- 
lenting caste  spirit,  Agricola  Fusilier. 


126  Provincial  Types  in  the  South 

The  sensational  end  of  Frowenfeld's  effort  to  help  the 
sick  Dr.  Keene,  by  caring  for  the  wounded  Palmyre,  re- 
sulted in  his  finding,  dramatically  enough,  Clotilde  Nancanou 
waiting  for  him  in  his  shop  that  she  might  make  some 
arrangement  to  pay  the  next  day's  rent  bill  by  the  sale  of 
her  heaviest  bracelet.  His  sudden  appearance  in  the  door- 
way, with  the  sweat  of  anguish  on  his  brow  and  the  matted 
blood  on  the  back  of  his  head,  —  the  mark  left  by  the  billet 
of  Palmyre's  Congo  dwarf — transformed  the  timid  Creole 
woman  into  a  brave  nurse,  who  bathed  his  head  with  her  own 
handkerchief,  took  him  by  the  arm,  and  cried  :  "  Asseyez- 
vous,  Monsieu'  —  pliz  to  give  you'sev  de  pens  to  see  down, 
'Sieu'  FrowenfeF."  Pressing  back  his  forehead  with  a  tremu- 
lous tenderness  and  wiping  off  the  blood,  she  said,  "  Mague 
yo'  'ead  back.  .  .  .  Were  you  is  'urted?"  Raoul's  un- 
comfortable question  as  to  where  Frowenfeld  had  left  his 
hat  brought  out  a  general  defense  of  himself  by  the  apothe- 
cary, in  which  he  despairingly  protested  his  innocence, 
reaching  out  both  his  hands  and  quite  losing  his  customary 
self-control.  "  'Sieu'  Frowenfel'  !  "  impulsively  exclaimed 
Clotilde,  the  tears  springing  to  her  eyes,  "  I  am  shoe  of  it !  " 
But  realizing  that  in  this  case  the  truth  only  would  seem  incredi- 
ble, the  wounded  man  gave  way  to  the  hopelessness  of  the 
situation  until  Clotilde  revived  him  by  a  glass  of  water,  and 
by  the  heroic  and  confident  assertion :  "  'Sieu'  Frowenfel', 
you  har  a  hinnocen'  man  !  Go,  hopen  yo'  do's  an'  stan'  juz 
as  you  har  ub  biffo  dad  crowd  and  sesso  ! "  Suddenly 
recovering  the  full  stature  of  his  manhood,  Frowenfeld 
called  a  blessing  on  her  and  a  reward  from  God  :  "  You 
believe  in  me,  and  you  do  not  even  know  me."  But  saying 
more  than  she  meant  to  reveal,  and  blushing  violently  at 
her  own  words,  Clotilde  answered  :  "  Mais,  I  does  know  you 


"The  Grandissimes  "  127 

—  betteh'n  you  know  annyt'in'  'boud  it !  "  And  Frowenfeld 
started  at  this  delightful  revelation  of  her  secret  love. 

Even  the  cynical  and  abrupt  Dr.  Keene  used  to  remark 
that  Clemence  —  the  old  negress  that  sold  calas  and  secretly 
carried  voudou  charms  for  the  Philosophe  —  was  a  thinker. 
It  was  revealed  both  in  the  cunning  aptness  of  her  songs  and 
in  the  droll  wisdom  of  her  sayings ;  and  her  shrewd  obser- 
vations on  the  condition  of  the  black  race  under  slavery  and 
the  Creole  attitude  toward  it  are  something  of  an  index, 
doubtless,  to  Mr.  Cable's  own  views  concerning  slavery  and 
the  caste  spirit  which  have,  directly  and  indirectly,  so  large 
a  place  in  the  book. 

Once,  in  the  course  of  chaffering  over  the  price  of  calas, 
Dr.  Keene  proclaimed  the  old  current  conviction,  which  is 
still  sometimes  heard  expressed,  that  the  slaves  were  "  the 
happiest  people  under  the  sun."  To  which  Clemence  was 
bold  enough  to  make  indignant  denial,  and  was  told  in  re- 
tort that  she  had  "  promulgated  a  falsehood  of  magnitude." 
"  W'y,  Mawse  Chawlie,"  she  replied,  "  does  you  s'pose  one 
po'  nigga  kin  tell  a  big  lie  ?  No,  sah  !  But  w'en  de  whole 
people  tell  w'at  am'  so  —  if  dey  know  it,  aw  if  dey  don' 
know  it  —  den  dat  is  a  big  lie  !  " 

Asked  if  she  charged  white  people  with  lying,  Clemence 
pretended  to  make  this  defense  of  the  whites  :  "  Oh,  sakes, 
Mawse  Chawlie,  no  !  De  people  don't  mek  up  dat  ah ;  de 
debble  pass  it  on  'em.  Don'  you  know  de  debble  ah  de 
grett  cyount'feiteh?  Ev'y  piece  o'  money  he  mek  he  tek 
an'  put  some  debblemen'  on  de  under  side,  an'  one  o'  his 
pootiess  lies  on  top ;  an'  'e  gilt  dat  lie,  and  e'  rub  dat  lie  on 
'is  elbow,  an'  'e  shine  dat  lie,  an'  'e  put  'is  bess  licks  on  dat 
lie ;  entel  ev'ybody  say,  '  Oh,  how  pooty  ! '  An'  dey  tek  it 
fo'  good  money,  yass  —  and  pass  it !  Dey  b'lieb  it ! " 


128  Provincial  Types  in  the  South 

The  quizzing  remark  of  a  bystander,  to  the  effect  that  the 
"niggers"  didn't  know  when  they  were  happy,  called  out 
the  retort  on  the  part  of  Clemence,  "  Dass  so,  Mawse  — 
c'cst  vrai,  oui!  we  donno  no  mo'n  white  folks  ! "  This  natu- 
rally won  the  laugh  against  the  speaker ;  and  when  Clemence 
naively  asked  the  doctor  whether  all  "  niggas  "  were  free 
in  Europe,  and  he  replied  that  something  like  that  was  true, 
the  shrewd  negress  observed  :  "  Well  now,  Mawse  Chawlie, 
I  gwan  t'  ass  you  a  riddle.  If  dat  is  so,  den  fo'  w'y  I  yeh 
folks  bragg'n  'bout  de  '  stayt  o'  s'iety  in  Eu'ope  '?  " 

Making  a  gesture  of  attention  she  continued  :  "  D'y'  ebber 
yeh  w'at  de  cya'ge-hoss  say  w'en  'e  see  de  cyaht-hoss  tu'n 
loose  in  de  sem  pawstu'e  wid  he,  an'  knowed  dat  some'ow 
de  cyaht  gotteh  be  haul'  ?  W'y  'e  jiz  snawt  an'  kick  up  'is 
heel'  "  —  she  suited  the  action  to  the  word  —  "  an'  tah' 
roun'  de  fieP  an'  prance  up  to  de  fence  an'  say,  '  Whoopy  ! 
shoo  !  shoo  !  dis  yeh  country  gittin'  too  free  ! ' "  Another 
laugh  on  the  part  of  the  onlookers,  and  Clemence  resumed  : 
"  Oh,  white  folks  is  werry  kine.  Dey  wants  us  to  b'lieb  we 
happy  —  dey  wants  to  b'lieb  we  is.  W'y,  you  know,  dey 
'bleeged  to  b'lieb  it  —  fo'  dey  own  cyumfut.  'Tis  de  sem 
weh  wid  de  preache's  ;  dey  bun"  we  ow  own  sep'ate  meet'n'- 
houses  ;  dey  b'leebs  us  lak  it  de  bess,  an'  dey  knows  dey  lak 
it  de  bess." 

Such  speeches  as  these,  though  smiled  at,  were  not  en- 
tirely forgotten  by  the  more  prejudiced  element  among  the 
Creoles,  and  when  later  poor  Clemence  was  caught  at  night 
in  a  trap  and  made  to  confess  at  the  mouth  of  a  pistol  the 
sender  of  voudou  charms,  her  often  expressed  views  had 
not  a  little  influence  in  determining  her  awful  fate. 

Events  like  Honore"  Grandissime's  heroic  restitution  to 
Aurore  and  Clotilde  of  the  Nancanou  estate  that  had  come 


cc  The  Grandissimes  "  129 

to  his  uncle  Agricola  as  the  result  of  a  gambling  contest,  and 
his  still  more  difficult  defiance  of  the  implacable  Grandissime 
caste  spirit  in  recognizing  his  less-white  half-brother  and 
admitting  him  into  the  business  under  the  new  firm-name 
of  "  Grandissime  Brothers,"  —  such  revolutionary  things  had 
happened  in  the  absence  of  Dr.  Keene  in  the  West  Indies 
in  search  of  health.  Fortunately  for  him,  Raoul  Innerarity, 
artist  and  new  bridegroom,  in  his  impatience  to  get  back  to 
his  wife,  boarded  the  schooner  bearing  the  doctor  to  New 
Orleans,  and  became  without  effort  newspaper  and  local 
gossip.  RaouPs  first  words  were  :  "  My  cousin  Honore",  — 
well  you  kin  jus'  say  'e  bitray'  'is  'ole  fam'ly."  And  when 
asked  to  explain  so  strong  and  startling  a  statement,  Raoul 
indignantly  continued  :  "  Well,  —  ce't'nly  'e  did  !  Di'n'  'e 
gave  dat  money  to  Aurora  de  Grapion  ?  —  one  'undred  five 
t'ousan'  dolla'?  Jis'  as  if  to  say,  'Yeh's  de  money  my 
h-uncle  stole  from  you'  'usbanV  Hah  !  w'en  I  will  swear 
on  a  stack  of  Bible'  as  'igh  as  yo'  head,  dat  Agricole  win 
dat  'abitation  fair  ! — If  I  see  it?  No,  sir;  I  don't  'ave  to 
see  it !  I'll  swear  to  it !  Hah  ! "  And  Raoul  added  the 
surprising  statement  that  the  receivers  of  all  this  money 
were  "  livin'  in  de  rue  Royale  in  mag-#$ycen'  style  on  top 
de  drug-sto'  of  Profis-or  Frowenfel'."  "An  listen!  You 
think  Honore"  di'n'  bitrayed  'is  family?  Madame  Nan- 
canou  an'  heh  daughtah  livin'  upstair'  an'  rissy-ving  de  finess 
soci'ty  in  de  Province  ! — an  me?  —  down-stair'  meckin'  pill'  ! 
You  call  dat  justice  ?  "  Ignoring  the  doctor's  inquiry  as 
to  whether  Honore*  and  Frowenfeld  were  callers  in  the  new 
quarters,  the  prejudiced  Creole  addressed  a  question  of  his 
own  :  "  Doctah  Keene,  I  hask  you  now,  plain,  don'  you  find 
dat  mighty  disgressful  to  do  dat  way,  lak  Honore"  ?  "  And 
at  the  doctor's  expression  of  ignorance  as  to  the  way,  the 
K 


130  Provincial  Types  in  the  South 

excited*«Raoul  asked  :  "  Wat  ?  You  dunno  ?  You  don'  yeh 
'ow  'e  gone  partner'  wid  a  nigga?  .  .  .  Yesseh  !  'e  gone 
partner'  wid  dat  quadroon  w'at  call  'imself  Honor6  Gran- 
dissime,  seh  !  "  "  What  do  the  family  say  to  that?  "  "  But 
w'at  can  dey  say?  It  save  dem  from  ruin  !  At  de  sem  time, 
me,  I  think  it  is  a  disgress.  Not  dat  he  h-use  de  money, 
but  it  is  dat  name  w'at  'e  give  de  h-establismen'  —  Gran- 
dissime  Freres  !  H-only  for  'is  money  we  would  'ave  catch' 
dat  quadroon  gen'leman  an'  put  some  tar  and  fedder.  Gran- 
dissime  Freres  !  Agricole  don'  spik  to  my  cousin  Honore 
no  mo'." 

After  the  capture  of  Clemence,  the  voudou  agent  of 
Palmyre,  and  the  ruling  of  Agricola  out  of  the  council  of 
vengeance,  this  fierce  and  irrational  embodiment  of  caste 
spirit,  carrying  in  one  hand  his  screed  on  the  "  Insanity  of 
Educating  the  Masses,"  and  in  the  other  hand  a  staff,  set  out 
for  Frowenfeld's  pharmacy.  While  Agricola  was  there  in 
conversation  with  the  proprietor,  who  should  walk  in  for  a 
prescription  but  Honore"  Grandissime  f.  m.  c.  (free  man  of 
color).  Agricola's  wrathful  demand  that  Frowenfeld  should 
turn  that  negro  out,  was  followed  by  another,  made  directly 
to  the  quadroon  himself,  to  take  off  his  hat.  The  quadroon 
slowly  slipped  his  thin  right  hand  into  his  bosom  and  replied 
in  his  soft,  low  voice,  "  I  wear  my  hat  on  my  head." 
Whereupon  the  furious  Agricola  struck  the  quadroon  on  the 
head  with  his  staff,  and  before  the  onlookers  could  interfere 
the  men  had  grappled  and  fallen,  the  quadroon  beneath. 
Suddenly  from  below  a  long  knife  was  lifted  and  thrust  three 
times  into  the  old  Agricola's  back.  He  was  carried  upstairs 
to  the  apartments  of  Aurora  and  Clotilde,  the  wife  and  child 
of  his  old  enemy,  and  there  with  his  dying  words  he  ex- 
claimed against  the  new  regime  —  the  Americain  in  Louisi- 


"  The  Grandissimes  "  131 

ana.  "  Your  Yankee  government  is  a  failure,  Honore,  a 
drivelling  failure.  It  may  live  a  year  or  two,  not  longer. 
Truth  will  triumph.  The  old  Louisiana  will  rise  again. 
She  will  get  back  her  trampled  rights.  When  she  does, 
remem  —  "  but  his  voice  suddenly  failed.  Addressing  him- 
self later  to  Frowenfeld,  he  falteringly  said :  "  Beware,  my 
son,  of  the  doctrine  of  equal  rights  —  a  bottomless  iniquity. 
Master  and  man  —  arch  and  pier  —  arch  above  —  pier  be- 
low. .  .  .  Society  has  pyramids  to  build  which  make 
menials  a  necessity,  and  Nature  furnishes  the  menials  all  in 
dark  uniform."  His  last  act,  most  unexpected  and  dramatic 
of  all,  was  to  unite  with  his  waning  strength  the  hands  of  his 
nephew,  Honore"  Grandissime,  with  those  of  Aurora  de 
Grapion,  saying  as  he  did  so  that  he  had  pledged  this  union 
to  Aurora's  father  twenty  years  before.  His  last  words  — 
and  they  were  appropriately  put  upon  his  tomb  —  were, 
"  Louisian  —  a  — for  —  ever  !  " 

But  a  deathbed  union,  such  as  that  performed  by  Agric- 
ola  Fusilier,  was  not  binding  in  the  eyes  of  Aurora  Nanca- 
nou;  and  although  her  love  for  Honore  Grandissime  was 
beyond  doubt  in  her  own  mind,  she  feared  that  he  was 
merely  carrying  out  the  wish  of  his  dying  uncle.  "An' 
w'en  someboddie  git'n  ti'ed  livin'  wid  'imsev  an'  big'n  to  fill 
ole,  an'  wan'  someboddie  to  teg  de  care  of  'im  an'  wan'  me 
to  gid  marri'd  wid  'im —  I  thing  'e's  in  love  wid  me."  And 
this  love  seems  to  the  little  Creole  widow  —  who  is  living  at 
the  advanced  age  of  thirty-five  —  to  bring  back  her  youth. 
"  Some  day',  'Sieur  Grandissime,  —  id  mague  me  fo'gid  my 
hage  !  I  thing  I'm  young  !  "  She  has  "  so  mudge  troub' 
wit  dad  hawt "  of  hers  that  it  seems  at  times  to  herself  that 
she  is  "  crezzy  "  and  that  she  "  muz  be  go'n'  to  die  torecklie." 
She  feels  that  in  some  way  Honore"  is  under  obligation  to 


132  Provincial  Types  in  the  South 

marry  her :  "  You  know,  'Sieur  Grandissime,  id  woon  be 
righd  !  Id  woon  be  juztiz  to  you  !  An'  you  de  bez  man  I 
ewa  know  in  my  life,  'Sieur  Grandissime  ! "  But  finally, 
after  his  long  and  ardent  persistency,  filled  with  tormenting 
doubt,  and  even  with  a  repeated  "no  "  upon  her  wayward 
lips,  she  bursts  into  tears  and  laughter,  and  allows  her  splen- 
did suitor,  head  of  a  hostile  house,  to  take  her  in  his  arms. 
And  all  the  world  rejoices  in  this  dramatic  union  of  beautiful 
love  and  high  romance. 


CHAPTER  X 

"THE   PROPHET  OF    THE    GREAT    SMOKY  MOUNTAINS" 
BY  "CHARLES   EGBERT  CRADDOCK" 

WHEN  Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich,  then  editor  of  the  Atlantic 
Monthly,  invited  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  and  William  Dean 
Howells  to  dine  with  "  Charles  Egbert  Craddock,"  there  was 
a  novel  running  serially  in  the  Atlantic  under  the  title  of 
"  The  Prophet  of  the  Great  Smoky  Mountains."  The  virility 
of  the  work,  as  well  as  that  of  the  preceding  short  stories 
collected  under  the  head  of  "  In  the  Tennessee  Mountains," 
had  apparently  marked  the  owner  of  the  pseudonym  as  un- 
doubtedly a  man.  There  was,  too,  a  certain  legal  acumen 
displayed  in  some  of  the  stories  which  might  belong  to  a 
lawyer  who  had  turned  to  literature  for  recreation.  And 
then  there  was  the  bold,  manly  handwriting  of  the  heavily 
inked  manuscripts,  which  once  led  Mr.  Aldrich  to  remark,  "  I 
wonder  if  Craddock  has  laid  in  his  winter's  ink  yet ;  perhaps 
I  can  get  a  serial  out  of  him."  "  Mr."  Craddock  proved  to 
be  Miss  Murfree,  and  the  serial  was  realized  in  "The 
Prophet  of  the  Great  Smoky  Mountains." 

There  is  little  cause  for  wonderment  that  for  six  years 
Miss  Murfree's  identity  was  unknown  —  such  intimate  knowl- 
edge of  the  pent-up,  ignorant,  law-defying,  hard-headed 
mountaineers  of  Tennessee  must  argue  a  man's  life  among 
the  mountains  themselves  as  the  only  means  of  obtaining 
such  unique  literary  material.  In  reality,  Miss  Murfree's 

133 


1 34  Provincial  Types  in  the  South 

family  had  been  in  the  habit  of  spending  their  summers  in 
the  Tennessee  mountains,  and  with  her  keenness  of  observa- 
tion, her  swift  insight  into  character,  and  her  poetic  sensi- 
bility Miss  Murfree  was  able  to  portray  her  strange  types  and 
their  impressive  environment  with  truth  and  picturesque 
effect. 

Above  Dorinda  Cayce,  as  she  plowed  with  her  one 
ox  down  the  corn-rows,  rolled  the  mists  and  vapors  of 
the  Great  Smoky  Mountains,  amid  which,  at  times,  the 
"  Prophet "  used  to  take  refuge  and  wrestle  in  prayer  for  his 
own  soul.  Dorinda,  the  daughter  of  the  old  moonshiner, 
" Ground-hog"  Cayce,  was  being  helped  in  her  plow- 
ing by  her  ardent  lover,  Rick  Tyler,  —  at  that  time  a 
hunted  outlaw  with  a  price  upon  his  head.  In  their  inter- 
mittent conversation,  Dorinda  suddenly  remarked,  referring 
to  Parson  Kelsey,  the  "Prophet":  "He  'lowed  ter  me  ez 
he  have  been  gin  ter  view  strange  sights  a  many  a  time  in 
them  fogs,  an*  sech."  Presently,  turning  her  eyes  on  her 
lover,  who  was  plowing  with  his  horse  near  by,  she  leaned 
lightly  on  the  plow-handles  and  continued :  "  I  'lowed  ter 
him  ez  mebbe  he  hed  drempt  them  visions.  I  knows  I  hev 
thunk  some  toler'ble  cur'ous  thoughts  myself,  ef  I  war  tired 
an'  sleepin'  hard.  But  he  said  he  reckoned  I  hed  drempt 
no  sech  dreams  ez  his'n.  I  can't  holp  sorrowin'  fur  him 
some.  He  'lowed  ez  Satan  hev  hunted  him  like  a  pa'tridge 
on  the  mounting." 

Rick,  the  lover,  was  somewhat  jealous  of  the  Prophet, 
who,  as  Dorinda  said,  stopped  to  rest  occasionally  at  the 
Cayces'  on  his  way  down  from  "  the  bald,"  where  he  went  to 
pray.  "  In  the  name  o'  reason,"  exclaimed  the  young  lover 
petulantly,  "  why  can't  he  pray  somewhar'  else  ?  A  man  ez 
hev  got  ter  h'ist  hisself  on  the  bald  of  a  mounting  ten  mile 


"  Prophet  of  the  Great  Smoky  Mountains  "    135 

high  —  except  what's  lackin'  —  to  git  a  purchase  on  prayer 
hain't  got  no  religion  wuth  talkin'  'bout.  Sinner  ez  I  am,  I 
kin  pray  in  the  valley  —  way  down  yander  in  Tuckaleechee 
Cove  —  ez  peart  ez  on  enny  bald  in  the  Big  Smoky." 

But  soon,  catching  the  sound  of  a  horse's  hoof  striking  on 
a  stone  far  down  the  mountain  road,  Rick  swiftly  saddled 
his  horse,  from  which  Dorinda  had  deftly  taken  the  plow- 
gear,  and  disappeared  in  the  dense  laurel  that  screened  the 
mountain  fastnesses. 

Dorinda,  at  twilight  time,  was  hunting  for  the  vagrant  cow 
and  now  and  then  calling  "  soo-cow  !  soo  !  "  when  she  heard 
a  sound  alien  to  the  echoes  of  her  own  cry.  Now  and  again 
from  the  great  "  bald  "  above  her  came  the  appealing,  tem- 
pestuous tones  of  the  Prophet,  and  Dorinda  said,  with  a  sort 
of  pity  in  her  voice,  "He  hev  fairly  beset  the  throne  o' 
grace  ! "  As  she  passed  along  singing,  she  came  suddenly,  a 
little  later,  upon  the  Prophet  himself,  standing  by  his  yoke 
of  weary  oxen,  which  he  was  allowing  a  few  moments  of  rest 
after  a  hard  day  of  plowing.  The  Prophet  was  of  medium 
height,  "slender  but  sinewy,  dressed  in  brown  jeans,  his 
trousers  thrust  into  the  legs  of  his  boots,  a  rifle  on  his  shoulder, 
and  a  broad-brimmed  old  wool  hat  surmounting  his  dark  hair, 
that  hung  down  to  the  collar  of  his  coat."  His  eyes  had  a 
peculiar  luster  of  fire  or  inspiration  or  frenzy,  —  in  strange 
contrast  to  his  otherwise  dullard  aspect.  Dorinda  asked 
solemnly  as  to  how  the  moral  vineyard  was  thriving,  and 
then  remarked  encouragingly,  "  I  hearn  tell  ez  thar  war  a 
right  smart  passel  o'  folks  baptized  over  yander  in  Scola- 
cutta  River."  The  Prophet  replied  that  he  had  baptized 
fourteen,  and  Dorinda  exclaimed,  "They  hed  all  fund 
grace  ! "  "  They  'lowed  so,"  returned  the  parson.  "  I 
hopes  they'll  prove  it  by  thar  works."  Asked  by  Dorinda 


136  Provincial  Types  in  the  South 

if  he  had  been  praying  for  them  on  "  the  bald,"  he  answered, 
"  Naw,  I  war  a-prayin'  for  myself." 

Upon  these  two  in  strange  dialogue  came  riding  Gid 
Fletcher,  the  blacksmith,  bringing  the  news  of  the  capture 
of  Rick  Tyler  while  he  was  attempting  to  buy  powder  at  the 
Settlement.  The  news  made  the  trees  unsteady  before  the 
eyes  of  Dorinda,  and  the  stars  became  a  circle  ®f  dazzling 
gleams.  She  caught  at  the  yoke,  leaned  against  one  of  the 
oxen,  and  bent  every  sense  into  the  act  of  listening.  Sud- 
denly there  came  a  change  in  Parson  Kelsey's  manner.  His 
fiery  eyes  turned  upon  the  blacksmith,  his  face  was  trans- 
formed with  light  and  life,  his  figure  grew  erect  and  tense, 
and  he  stretched  forth  an  accusing  gesture.  "  Twar  you- 
uns,  Gid  Fletcher,  ez  tuk  the  boy  !  "  This  in  the  minds  of 
the  blacksmith  and  Dorinda  was  only  another  confirmation 
of  the  parson's  power  in  the  mysterious  matter  of  abnormal 
foreknowledge.  And  when  the  blacksmith,  with  rising 
blood,  inquired  why  the  Prophet  should  think  it  was  he 
rather  than  others  that  had  effected  the  treacherous  capture, 
the  mind-reader  fearlessly  responded :  "  Yer  heart  air  ez 
hard  ez  yer  anvil,  Gid  Fletcher.  Thar  ain't  another  man  on 
the  Big  Smoky  ez  would  stir  himself  ter  gin  over  ter  the 
gallus  or  the  pen'tiary  the  frien'  ez  trested  him,  who  hev 
done  no  harm,  but  hev  got  tangled  in  a  twist  of  a  unjest 
law." 

The  blacksmith's  exonerating  suggestion  that  the  gov- 
ernor of  Tennessee  had  offered  a  reward  of  two  hundred 
dollars  for  Rick's  capture  called  out  the  uncompromis- 
ing comment  of  the  parson,  "  Blood  money."  The  black- 
smith's insistence  that  the  earning  of  the  reward  was 
lawful  prompted  the  fierce  exclamation  of  the  Prophet : 
"  Lawful !  Judas  war  a  law-abidin'  citizen.  He  mos'  lawfully 


"  Prophet  of  the  Great  Smoky  Mountains  "    137 

betrayed  his  Frien'  ter  the  law.  Them  thirty  pieces  o' 
silver  !  Sech  currency  ain't  out  o'  circulation  yit !  " 

Quick  as  a  flash  the  blacksmith's  heavy  hand  struck  the 
Prophet  in  the  face,  but  the  next  moment  his  anger  was 
plunged  into  fear;  for  there  stood  the  assaulted  and  out- 
raged man  with  a  loaded  rifle  in  his  hands,  and  the  light- 
nings of  heaven  flashing  in  his  eyes.  But  hardly  had  the 
blacksmith  time  to  draw  the  breath  he  thought  would  be 
his  last,  when  the  Prophet  turned  to  him  the  other  cheek, 
and  said,  with  all  the  dignity  of  his  calling,  "  In  the  name  of 
the  Master." 

As  the  blacksmith  rode  away,  he  felt  that  the  parson's 
rifle-ball  would  have  been  better  than  his  own  loss  of  moral 
and  spiritual  reputation,  for  in  the  Big  Smoky,  piety,  or  its 
simulacrum,  was  the  point  of  honor.  What  an  illustration 
of  iniquity  he  would  furnish  for  the  parson's  sermons,  what 
a  text !  The  blacksmith,  cast  down  and  indignant,  pon- 
dered on  his  homeward  way  the  uncomfortable  situation  in 
these  words  :  "  Fur  Hi  Kelsey  ter  be  a-puttin'  up  sech  a 
pious  mouth,  an'  a-turnin'  the  t'other  cheek,  an'  sech,  ter 
me,  ez  hev  seen  him  hold  his  own  ez  stiff  in  a  many  a  free- 
handed fight,  an'  hev  drawed  his  shootin'-irons  on  folks 
agin  an'  agin  !  An'  he  fairly  tuk  the  dep'ty,  at  that  thar 
disturbamint  at  the  meet'n'-house,  by  the  scruff  o'  the  neck, 
an'  shuck  him  ez  ef  he  hed  been  a  rat  or  suthin',  an'  drapped 
him  out'n  the  door.  An'  now  ter  be  a-turnin'  the  t'other 
cheek  !  " 

The  parson's  fearless  interruption  of  the  gander-pulling 
sport,  his  uncompromising  prediction  of  'Cajah  Green's 
failure  to  be  reelected,  and  the  mysterious  escape  of  Rick 
Tyler,  with  which  the  parson's  cooperation  was  vaguely  hinted 
at,  bring  us  to  the  time  when  the  parson,  riding  along  the 


138  Provincial  Types  in  the  South 

valley  road  and  looking  up  at  the  mountain  heights,  was 
lifted  into  a  sort  of  spiritual  exaltation  by  the  thought 
that  "on  a  mountain  the  ark  rested;  on  a  mountain  the 
cross  was  planted ;  the  steeps  beheld  the  glories  of  the 
transfiguration;  the  lofty  solitudes  heard  the  prayers  of 
Christ ;  and  from  the  heights  issued  the  great  sermon  in- 
stinct with  all  the  moralities  of  every  creed."  But  this 
mood  of  special  exaltation,  in  which  he  was  almost  happy, 
was  miserably  broken  as  he  rode  along  reading  his  Bible, 
by  the  unconscious  flattery  of  a  roadside  mountaineer,  who 
cried  out  in  the  fervor  of  his  admiration,  "  Kin  ye  read 
yer  book,  pa'son,  an'  ride  yer  beastis  all  ter  wunst?  "  Alas  ! 
"  that  tree  of  knowledge,  —  ah,  the  wily  serpent !  Galilee, 
—  it  was  thousands  of  miles  away  across  the  deep  salt  seas." 

Closing  his  book  with  an  exulting  smile  of  pride  in  his 
own  superior  achievement,  he  said :  "  The  beast  don't 
hender  me  none.  I  kin  read  ennywhar."  Whereupon  the 
admiring  mountaineer  declared  his  intention  of  taking  the 
whole  family  the  following  Sunday  to  hear  the  parson's 
sermon.  "  I  'low  ez  a  man  what  kin  ride  a  beastis  an'  read 
a  book  all  ter  wunst  mus'  be  a  powerful  exhorter,  an' 
mebbe  ye'll  lead  us  all  ter  grace." 

The  Prophet's  momentary  pleasure  in  this  admiration  and 
unconscious  flattery  fled  before  the  sense  of  his  own  vanity 
and  unworthiness.  "  He  remembered  Peter,  the  impetuous, 
and  Thomas,  the  doubter,  and  the  warm  generosities  of  the 
heart  of  him  whom  Jesus  loved,  and  he  '  reckoned '  that 
they  would  not  have  left  Him  standing  in  the  road  for  the 
joy  of  hearing  their  learning  praised."  "  The  Lord  lifts 
me  up,"  he  said,  "  ter  dash  me  on  the  groun'  ! " 

The  afternoon  of  the  same  day  he  reached  the  house  of 
the  Cayces  on  the  slope  of  the  mountain,  and  being  asked 


"  Prophet  of  the  Great  Smoky  Mountains  "    139 

by  the  old  woman  to  stop  and  "  rest  his  bones,"  he  tarried 
awhile  in  conversation  with  Dorinda  and  her  mother.  To 
the  latter's  question,  "  Be  you-uns  a-goin'  ter  hold  fo'th  or 
Brother  Jake  Tobin  ?  "  the  parson  replied :  "  It  air  me  ez 
air  a-goin'  ter  preach."  Whereupon  the  old  woman  promptly 
declared :  "  Then  I'm  a-comin'.  It  do  me  good  ter  hear 
you-uns  fairly  make  the  sinners  spin.  Sech  a  gift  o'  speech 
ye  hev  got !  I  fairly  see  hell  when  ye  talk  o'  thar  doom. 
I  see  wrath  an'  I  smell  brimstone.  Lord  be  thanked,  I  hev 
fund  peace  !  An'  I'm  jes'  a-waitin'  fur  the  good  day  ter 
come  when  the  Lord '11  rescue  me  from  yearth  !  "  Unfortu- 
nately her  daughter  Dorinda,  as  the  mother  told  the  parson, 
was  not  yet  "  convicted,"  and  the  old  woman  demanded  of 
him:  "Why  n't  ye  speak  the  truth  ter  her,  pa'son?  Fix 
her  sins  on  her."  "  Sometimes,"  responded  the  parson  in 
strange  depression,  "  I  dunno  ef  I  hev  enny  call  ter  say  a 
word.  I  hev  preached  ter  others,  an'  I'm  like  ter  be  a 
castaway  myself." 

In  the  little  log  meeting-house  at  the  Notch  on  the  fol- 
lowing Sunday,  after  a  long  preliminary  service  by  the  unc- 
tuous Brother  Jake  Tobin  and  a  labored  prayer  by  Brother 
Reuben  Bates,  Parson  Kelsey  stepped  forward  to  the  table 
and  opened  the  book,  while  the  congregation  expectantly 
composed  itself  to  listen  to  the  sermon.  He  turned  the 
leaves  of  the  New  Testament  for  a  text,  but  suddenly  into 
his  mind  came  skulking  a  "  grewsome  company  of  doubts. 
In  double  file  they  came  :  fate  and  free  agency,  free  will 
and  foreordination,  infinite  mercy  and  infinite  justice,  God's 
loving-kindness  and  man's  intolerable  misery,  redemption 
and  damnation."  They  proved  too  strong  for  this  crudely 
logical,  morbidly  conscientious  mountain  preacher  —  the  very 
opposite  type  from  Edward  Eggleston's  Mr.  Bosaw  —  and 


140  Provincial  Types  in  the  South 

he  closed  the  Bible  with  a  sudden  impulse  and  the  galvanic 
announcement,  "  My  frien's,  I  stan'  not  hyar  ter  preach 
ter-day,  but  fur  confession."  Amid  the  intense  silence 
following  the  announcement,  he  agonizingly  cried  out :  "  I 
hev  los'  my  faith  !  God  ez  gin  it — ef  thar  is  a  God  — 
hev  tuk  it  away.  You-uns  kin  go  on.  You-uns  kin  b'lieve. 
Yer  paster  b'lieves,  an'  he'll  lead  ye  ter  grace,  —  leastwise 
ter  a  better  life.  But  fur  me  thar's  the  nethermost  depths 
of  hell,  ef —  ef  thar  be  enny  hell."  At  the  rising  protest  of 
Parson  Tobin,  the  Prophet  lifted  his  hand  in  deprecation  — 
"  bear  with  me  a  little ;  ye'll  see  me  hyar  no  more.  Fur 
me  thar  is  shame,  ah  !  an'  trial,  ah  !  an'  doubt,  ah  !  an' 
despair,  ah  !  ...  My  name  is  ter  be  a  by-word  an'  a 
reproach  'mongst  ye.  .  .  .  An'  I  hev  hed  trials,  —  none 
like  them  ez  air  comin',  comin',  down  the  wind." 

He  stood  erect,  he  looked  bold  and  youthful,  and  in  his 
eyes  shone  the  strange  light  that  always  marked  his  inspira- 
tion or  frenzy.  "  I  will  go  forth  from  'mongst  ye,  —  I  that 
am  not  of  ye.  Another  shall  gird  me  an'  carry  me  where  I 
would  not.  Hell  an'  the  devil  hev  prevailed  agin  me. 
Pray  fur  me,  brethren,  ez  I  cannot  pray  fur  myself.  Pray 
that  God  may  yet  speak  ter  me,  —  speak  from  out  o'  the 
whirlwind." 

There  was  a  sound  upon  the  air,  a  thrill  ran  through  the 
horrified  congregation,  galloping  hoof-beats  came  nearer, 
the  sheriff  strode  up  the  aisle  and  laid  his  hand  upon  the 
preacher's  shoulder,  and  the  Prophet  was  under  arrest  in  his 
own  pulpit !  Self-convicted  of  the  blasphemy  of  infidelity  and 
arrested  as  a  culprit  before  the  law  !  He  was  accused  of 
having  rescued  Rick  Tyler  from  the  hands  of  the  law,  and 
in  his  utter  innocence  he  cried  in  a  tense  voice,  "  I  never 
rescued  Rick  Tyler ! "  Brother  Jake  Tobin  consolingly 


"  Prophet  of  the  Great  Smoky  Mountains  "    141 

remarked,  "  Yer  sins  hev  surely  fund  ye  out,  Brother  Kel- 
sey,"  while  the  Prophet,  with  a  fierce  inward  struggle, 
allowed  himself  to  be  led  away  from  among  them. 

Despite  the  efforts  of  Dorinda  Cayce  to  persuade  her 
jealous  lover,  Rick  Tyler,  —  who  had  been  exonerated  of 
his  alleged  crime,  —  to  testify  in  behalf  of  Parson  Kelsey,  or 
even  to  have  his  testimony  put  in  the  form  of  an  affidavit, 
to  the  effect  that  Rick  was  his  own  rescuer,  the  innocent 
parson  was  brought  to  trial.  The  judge  strongly  charged 
the  jury  in  favor  of  the  defendant,  and,  after  the  verdict  of 
acquittal,  stated  indignantly  that  there  had  been  practically 
no  evidence  against  the  parson,  and  that  the  whole  case  was 
one  of  flagrant  malice.  Gid  Fletcher,  the  blacksmith,  who 
was  a  witness  at  the  trial,  reported  that  the  Prophet  had 
risen  and  reviled  both  himself  and  'Cajah  Green,  the  sheriff, 
in  open  court.  "  'Pears  like  he  hed  read  the  Bible  so  con- 
stant jes'  ter  1'arn  ev'ry  creepy  soundin'  curse  ez  could  be 
called  down  on  the  heads  o'  men." 

With  the  return  of  Parson  Kelsey  to  the  Big  Smoky  came 
a  snow-storm,  covering  the  ground  with  a  thick  whiteness. 
As  he  trudged  along  up  the  mountain  he  came  to  the  log- 
cabin  of  old  Ground-hog  Cayce,  whose  still  had  been  de- 
stroyed through  information  furnished  by  'Cajah  Green,  the 
ex-sheriff.  Knocking  at  the  door,  the  Prophet  was  admitted 
to  a  circle  of  alert,  expectant  men,  —  Cayce  and  his  stalwart 
sons.  Kelsey  noted  their  aspect  of  repressed  excitement 
and  how  uneasily  they  shifted  their  chairs,  which  grated 
harshly  on  the  puncheon  floor.  The  conversation  finally 
ran  upon  'Cajah  Green  and  the  destruction  wrought  in  the 
cave  where  the  Cayces'  illicit  still  had  stood.  One  of  the 
sons  suddenly  turned  to  Kelsey  and  asked,  "Ye  w'wants 
him  shot,  hey,  pa'son?"  And  with  flashing  eye  Kelsey 


142  Provincial  Types  in  the  South 

replied,  "  I  pray  that  the  Lord  may  cut  him  off."  The  par- 
son was  thinking  of  his  arrest  by  Green  and  of  his  unjust 
trial  due  to  the  malevolence  of  the  same  man.  But  when 
he  fully  realized  that  the  moonshiners  were  really  bent  on 
murdering  the  ex-sheriff,  his  mind  changed  into  compassion 
and  into  horror  at  the  thought  of  such  cold-blooded  crime. 
Lifting  his  hand  suddenly,  with  an  imperative  gesture,  and 
with  the  old-time  religious  light  in  his  eyes,  the  Prophet 
exclaimed  :  "  Listen  ter  me  !  Ye'll  repent  o'  yer  deeds  this 
night !  An'  the  jedgmint  o'  the  Lord  will  foller  ye  !  Yer 
father's  gray  hairs  will  go  down  in  sorrow  ter  the  grave,  but 
his  mind  will  die  before  his  body.  An'  some  o'  you-uns 
will  languish  in  jail,  an'  know  the  despair  o'  the  bars.  .  .  . 
An'  but  for  the  coward  in  the  blood,  ye  would  take  yer  own 
life  then  !  An'  ye'll  look  at  the  grave  before  ye,  an'  hope  ez 
it  all  ends  thar."  He  was  transfigured  before  them,  and  they 
quailed  momentarily  in  the  presence  of  so  dire  and  authori- 
tative a  prophecy.  But  the  effect  soon  was  lost,  and  when 
Kelsey  attempted  to  leave,  one  of  the  sons  threw  himself 
against  the  door  and  prevented. 

The  night  wore  on,  the  fire  roared,  and  the  men  sat 
intently  listening  about  the  hearth.  Suddenly  there  was  a 
growl  from  the  dogs  under  the  house,  and  then  the  sound  of 
crunching  hoofs  on  the  snow.  The  men  moved  out,  swift  and 
silent  as  shadows,  there  was  a  struggle  in  the  road,  a  wild  cry 
for  help,  the  firing  of  a  pistol,  and  'Cajah  Green  was  a  prisoner 
in  the  hands  of  the  murderous  Cayces.  Kelsey,  who  had  no 
horse,  was  made  to  ride  with  the  prisoner  and  just  in  front 
of  him,  and  about  them  rode  the  silent  squad  of  moon- 
shiners. Micajah  Green  begged  for  his  life  as  he  went,  — 
he  denied,  and  explained,  and  promised;  but  old  man 
Cayce  savagely  and  briefly  commented :  "  Ye  cotton  ter 


"  Prophet  of  the  Great  Smoky  Mountains  "    143 

puttin'  folks  in  jail,  'Cajah  !  Yer  turn  now  !  We'll  put 
ye  whar  the  dogs  won't  bite  ye."  And  so  in  the  still  night 
they  wound  their  way  through  the  dense  laurel  to  the 
mouth  of  the  cave  where  the  Cayce  whisky  still  once 
stood.  They  could  hear  the  sound  of  the  dark,  cold  water 
rippling  in  the  vaulted  place  where  the  dammed  current  now 
rose  halfway  to  the  roof.  The  wretched  prisoner,  foreseeing 
the  savage  form  of  his  death,  made  a  last  despairing  struggle, 
and  Pete  Cayce,  reaching  up,  cried  out  to  Kelsey,  "  Lemme 
git  a  holt  of  him,  Hi."  "Hyar  he  be,"  gasped  the  parson; 
there  was  another  frantic  struggle  as  they  tore  the  doomed 
man  from  the  horse,  a  splash,  a  muffled  cry,  and  a  man  dis- 
appeared in  the  black  water.  A  great  bowlder  hard  by  was 
given  a  push,  and  fell,  completely  blocking  the  cave's  mouth. 
Then  the  terrorized  men  mounted  their  horses  in  the  dark- 
ness and  rode  away  in  all  directions  as  if  pursued.  The 
next  day  it  was  reported  that  just  at  daybreak  that  morning 
Micajah  Green  was  seen  riding  by  on  his  big  gray  horse  at  a 
wild  rate  of  speed ;  and  slowly  it  dawned  on  the  inhabitants 
of  the  Big  Smoky  that,  Christlike,  the  Prophet  had  sacrificed 
himself  for  his  inveterate  enemy,  and  lay  dead  in  the  black 
waters  of  the  cave. 


PROVINCIAL   TYPES    IN    THE 
MISSISSIPPI   VALLEY 

CHAPTER  XI 

A  BRIEF  SURVEY  OF  THE  FIELD 

IT  is  a  little  difficult  for  a  professional  humorist  to  make 
people  think  that  he  is  making  a  positive  addition  to  the 
knowledge  of  any  section  of  the  country  or  of  its  indige- 
nous types ;  but  even  in  "  Life  on  the  Mississippi "  Mr. 
Clemens  has  given  us  some  very  distinct  and  picturesque 
impressions  of  provincial  character  in  the  Southwest.  And 
this  is  particularly  true  in  "  Huckleberry  Finn,"  whose  hero 
became  familiar  to  the  world  as  the  notorious  son  of  the 
town  drunkard  in  "The  Adventures  of  Tom  Sawyer."  If, 
as  Mr.  Howells  thinks,  Mark  Twain's  humor  is,  at  its  best, 
"  the  foamy  break  of  the  strong  tide  of  earnestness  in  him," 
we  should  expect  to  find  even  in  such  a  work  as  "  Huckle- 
berry Finn  "  much  that  is  vital  in  characterization  and  in- 
teresting for  its  very  truth's  sake.  Many  readers  will  be 
surprised  to  know  that  one  of  the  most  authoritative  critics 
of  the  world,  Mr.  Andrew  Lang,  says  that  "  Huckleberry 
Finn  "  is  already  "  an  historical  novel  and  more  valuable, 
perhaps,  to  the  historian  than  '  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin,'  for  it 
is  written  without  partisanship  and  without  'a.  purpose.' 
.  .  .  The  world  appreciates  it,  no  doubt,  but  '  cultured 
critics '  are  probably  unaware  of  its  singular  value." 

144 


A  Brief  Survey  of  the  Field  145 

The  homely  but  inimitable  tale  of  how  Huck,  with  his 
new-found  fortune,  at  interest,  yielding  a  dollar  a  day  — 
"  more  than  a  body  could  tell  what  to  do  with  "  —  became 
the  adopted  son  of  the  Widow  Douglass ;  and  how  he  re- 
belled from  respectability  and  new  clothes  and  regularity, 
and  particularly  from  the  moral  "  pecking "  of  the  "  slim 
old  maid,"  Miss  Watson ;  and  how  he  escaped  in  the  night 
to  relieve  the  terrible  ennui  and  joined  Tom  Sawyer's  rob- 
ber gang  in  the  cave ;  how  he  consulted  Miss  Watson's 
"nigger,"  Jim, — with  his  prophetic  "hair-ball,"  —  about 
Huck's  drunken  father  and  his  purposes ;  and  how  the 
father  went  to  law  about  him  with  the  widow  and  finally 
carried  his  son  off  up  the  Mississippi  in  a  skiff  and  kept 
him  a  sort  of  prisoner  in  an  old  log  hut,  until  the  restraint 
and  the  cowhiding  and  his  father's  delirium  tremens  got 
to  be  too  much  for  Huck,  and  he  made  his  escape  down 
the  river  in  a  canoe,  —  such  is  the  beginning  of  this  unique 
and  dramatic  story,  that  gives  so  many  vivid  impressions  of 
life  on  the  river  and  along  the  fringes  of  the  adjoining 
states.  Huck's  night  arrival  at  Jackson's  Island,  his  silent 
watching  of  the  efforts  to  raise  his  supposed  dead  body 
from  the  river  by  means  of  the  cannon-firing,  his  sensa- 
tional discovery  on  the  island  of  Miss  Watson's  runaway 
"nigger,"  Jim,  their  adventurous  life  together  in  the  cavern, 
Huck's  disguise  as  a  girl,  and  the  swift  penetration  of  it 
by  Mrs.  Judith  Loftus  of  St.  Petersburg,  and  the  sudden 
slipping  away  of  slave  and  boy  from  their  dangerous  island, 
—  these  are  part  of  the  absorbing  narrative.  And  the  wreck 
with  its  murderous  gang,  the  blinding  fogs  and  measure- 
less depths  of  star-lit  skies,  the  hopeless  missing  of  Cairo 
in  the  night,  the  smashing  of  the  raft  by  the  big  steamer, 
all  pass  before  us  like  a  panorama  of  the  great  stream. 
L 


146     Provincial  Types  in  the  Mississippi  Valley 

And  then,  what  strokes  of  dramatic  power  in  the  descrip- 
tion of  the  vendetta,  —  the  family  feud  of  the  fighting 
Shepherdsons  and  Grangerfords,  —  and  what  telling  char- 
acterizations in  Huck  himself,  his  besotted  and  brutalized 
father,  the  loyal  and  superstitious  Jim,  Colonel  Sherborne, 
who  coolly  shoots  old  Boggs  and  superbly  quells  the 
mob ;  the  various  old  aunts  and  uncles ;  and  those  humor- 
ous impostors,  the  "  Duke,"  and  the  "  King."  A  great 
variety  of  phases  in  the  life  of  the  Southwest,  forty  or  fifty 
years  ago,  is  set  forth  with  realistic  power  —  such  phases  as 
camp-meetings  and  circuses  and  funerals  and  entertain- 
ments. And  nights  on  the  great  river,  storms,  sketches  of 
decayed  towns  and  of  changing  landscape,  woods,  and 
cotton  fields  are  painted  with  a  simple  and  direct  power 
that  makes  them  the  vivid  environment  of  all  these  varied 
types  of  peculiar  character.  The  story,  indeed,  lapses  into 
a  long-drawn  and  rather  tedious  burlesque,  in  the  formal 
freeing  of  the  already  free  Jim  according  to  Tom  Sawyer's 
"  best  authorities  " ;  yet  here  is  a  realism  of  such  intense 
interest  and  authenticity  that  occasional  defects  in  taste 
can  easily  be  overlooked.  And  through  it  all  is  illustrated 
that  humorous  power  of  calm  exaggeration  which  the  world 
has  come  to  recognize  as  Mr.  Clemens's  distinctive  gift. 

Before  the  state  of  Indiana  had  become  a  center  of 
literary  activity  and  interest,  and  the  ways  of  primitive 
Hoosier  life  had  been  little  studied,  there  appeared  in  1872 
"  The  Hoosier  Schoolmaster,"  written  by  a  man  who  was 
born  in  the  southern  part  of  the  state  in  the  memorable 
year  of  1837,  and  who  spent  his  boyhood  there  in  farm 
labor  and  as  a  clerk  in  a  country  store.  His  mother,  after 
the  death  of  his  father,  had  married  a  Methodist  doctor  of 
divinity  in  Indiana ;  and  this  gave  him  what  people  of  his 


A  Brief  Survey  of  the  Field  147 

neighborhood  would  have  called  "  a  right  smart  chance  of 
travel."  At  nineteen  this  boy  became  a  circuit  rider  in 
Indiana  for  his  chosen  church ;  and  in  this  way  Edward 
Eggleston  became  peculiarly  fitted  by  environment  and 
experience  to  portray  the  provincial  and  unique  types  that 
move  so  vigorously  through  the  pages  of  "  The  Circuit 
Rider,"  "  The  End  of  the  World,"  "  Roxy,"  and  "  The 
Hoosier  Schoolmaster."  The  opening  chapter  of  the  last- 
mentioned  book  presents  a  strange  picture  of  one  of  those 
crude  and  almost  repulsive  families  that  must  have  existed 
in  early  Indiana  history,  —  old  Jack  Means,  the  school 
trustee,  to  whom  Ralph  Hartsook  made  application  for  the 
place  of  schoolmaster  in  the  Flat  Crick  school ;  "  Bud " 
Means,  who  seemed  to  be  measuring  the  young  applicant 
by  the  standard  of  muscle  alone ;  the  giggling  "  Sis,"  who  was 
evidently  delighted  at  the  prospect  of  seeing  the  bulldog 
take  hold  of  the  somewhat  disheartened  teacher ;  "  Bill," 
who  on  the  first  morning  of  school  put  the  puppy  in  the 
master's  desk ;  and  "  Bull  "  himself,  who,  despite  his  threat- 
ening looks,  was  a  bulldog  to  teach  by  example  the  advan- 
tages of  "  nerve,"  —  "  Ef  Bull  once  takes  a  holt,  heaven 
and  yarth  can't  make  him  let  go." 

What  'with  fighting  the  boys ;  incurring  the  hostility  of  a 
gang  of  horse-thieves  and  burglars,  who  have  at  their  head 
the  principal  physician  among  the  Flat  Crickers;  narrowly 
escaping  with  his  life  from  the  instigated  mob ;  and  being 
driven  to  public  trial  for  alleged  complicity  in  robbery,  — 
the  young  schoolmaster  has  a  somewhat  tragic  history.  But 
he  makes  his  innocence  and  courage  clear  in  the  trial,  and 
finally  succeeds  in  marrying  Hannah,  the  "  bound  gal,"  who 
had  proved  victorious  over  him  in  that  most  dramatic  of 
events,  the  country  spelling- match. 


148      Provincial  Types  in  the  Mississippi  Valley 

Hannah's  brother,  Shocky,  whom  "  God  forgot/'  —  at 
least  for  a  time,  —  is  a  pathetic  little  figure,  made  doubly 
so  by  the  misery  of  his  mother  in  the  poorhouse  and  of  his 
sister,  Hannah,  bound  out  to  service.  Old  pipe-smoking 
Mrs.  Means,  with  her  thrifty  proverb  of  "  Git  a  plenty  while 
you're  a-gittin'  "  ;  '  Squire  Hawkins,  with  his  black  gloves, 
waxen-colored  wig,  glass  eye,  and  false  teeth ;  Jeems  Phil- 
lips, that  genius  in  "  Webster's  Elementary "  ;  and  the 
insinuating  but  silent  Dr.  Small,  —  are  all  distinctly  indi- 
vidualized from  the  life.  And  so  are  Pete  Jones,  with  his 
educational  theory  of  "  No  lickin'  no  larnin' "  ;  Granny 
Sanders,  the  fountain-head  of  gossip  ;  Miss  Martha  Hawkins, 
whose  reminiscence  always  began,  "  When  I  was  to  Bos- 
ting  " ;  and  the  generous-hearted,  one-legged,  warlike  old 
basket-maker  who  summed  up  his  observations  with  the 
despairing  remark  that  "we're  all  selfish  akordin'  to  my 
tell." 

In  the  midst  of  all  the  crude  religious  sects  of  the 
time  stands  out  the  Rev.  Mr.  Bosaw  of  the  "  Hardshell " 
Baptist  denomination,  —  otherwise  known  as  the  "  Whisky 
Baptists  "  and  the  "  Forty-gallon  Baptists,"  —  and  Mr. 
Eggleston  gives  verbatim  the  incredible  sermon  preached 
by  the  reverend  gentleman  with  the  rich,  red  nose,  the 
nasal  resonance,  and  the  melancholy  minor  key,  —  whose 
opening  words  were,  "  the  ox-ah  knoweth  his  owner-ah, 
and-ah  the  ass-ah  his  master's  crib-ah."  A  fit  companion 
type  with  Mr.  Bosaw  is  "  Brother  Sodom,"  who  always  "  shook 
his  brimstone  wallet "  over  the  people  and  pushed  them  to 
the  edge  of  hell. 

What  might  be  called  a  secondary  hero  of  the  book  is 
"  Bud  "  Means,  the  young  giant  whom  the  schoolmaster  won 
over  by  his  grit  and  his  character.  He  has  become  famous 


A  Brief  Survey  of  the  Field  149 

for  his  founding  of  "  The  Church  of  the  Best  Licks,"  which 
included  all  who  would  "  put  in  their  best  licks  for  Jesus 
Christ"  (who  was  himself  "a  kind  of  a  Flat  Cricker"). 
Another  piece  of  capital  character- drawing  is  that  of  Miss 
Nancy  Sawyer,  the  old  maid  who  was  a  benediction  to  the 
whole  town  as  well  as  to  the  young  schoolmaster  and 
Shocky.  And  the  unspeakable  conditions  under  which 
Shocky's  mother  lived  in  the  poorhouse  could  not  have 
been  more  repellently  described  by  Dickens  himself  than 
they  have  been  in  Mr.  Eggleston's  chapter  on  "  A  Charitable 
Institution."  The  book  as  a  whole  is  a  convincing  study 
of  types  and  a  time  that  were  a  significant  part  of  the 
development  of  the  great  Middle  West. 

In  such  short  stories  as  "  Ma'  Bowlin',"  "  Whitsun  Harp, 
Regulator,"  "  Sist'  Chaney's  Black  Silk  "  and  "  The  Mortgage 
on  Jeffy,"  which  appear  in  the  two  collections  called  "  Knitters 
in  the  Sun "  and  "  Otto  the  Knight,"  Miss  Alice  French, 
more  familiarly  known  by  her  pseudonym,  "  Octave  Thanet," 
has  given  sketches  of  life  as  seen  from  a  plantation  in 
Arkansas,  which  the  author  makes  her  winter  home ;  and 
phases  of  character  in  other  parts  of  the  South  are  touched 
in  "  The  Bishop's  Vagabond  "  and  "  Half  a  Curse."  But 
her  best-known  sketches  are  those  contained  in  "  Stories  of 
a  Western  Town,"  in  which  she  shows  special  knowledge  of 
average  types  in  Iowa  and  other  communities  west  of  the 
Mississippi.  Her  portrayal  is  intimate,  vigorous,  and  sym- 
pathetic, and  helps  to  give  a  somewhat  adequate  conception 
of  what  the  actual  life  and  feeling  and  aspiration  are  in 
certain  parts  of  the  Mississippi  Valley. 

In  his  preface  to  "  The  Story  of  a  Country  Town "  Mr. 
Edgar  Watson  Howe  tells  us  that  the  book  was  written  at 
night  after  the  editorial  work  of  the  day  was  done.  Such 


150     Provincial  Types  in  the  Mississippi  Valley 

conditions  of  production  may  not  have  influenced  its  point 
of  view  and  its  prevailing  tone.  But  the  book,  like  the 
Kansas  town  that  it  portrays,  lacks  a  certain  sunny  quality 
of  ease  and  geniality,  which  is  doubtless  due  to  the  nature  of 
the  social  life  it  sets  forth  so  convincingly.  Kansas  has, 
also,  in  William  Allen  White  an  interpreter  of  certain 
phases  of  her  life,  and  the  interpretation  is  exceedingly 
keen  in  its  insight  and  humorous  and  vigorous  in  its 
expression,  as  is  shown  in  his  volume  of  sketches  entitled 
"  The  Real  Issue  "  and  in  his  juvenile  "  Court  of  Boyville." 

Hamlin  Garland's  early  life  in  Wisconsin,  Iowa,  and  Da- 
kota gave  him  abundant  opportunity  to  study  and  appreciate 
the  crude,  earnest,  aspiring,  self-sacrificing  men  and  women 
who  made  up  the  bone  and  sinew  of  the  pioneer  population 
of  the  great  Northwest.  Whether  in  the  story  of  "  A  Little 
Norsk,"  with  its  Dakota  blizzard,  its  helpless  child,  and  its 
pathetic  burial  of  "  Flaxen's  "  mother,  or  in  "  Prairie  Folks  " 
and  the  remarkable  development  of  a  young  farm  girl's  na- 
ture in  "  Rose  of  Dutcher's  Coolly,"  or  in  the  depressing 
short  stories  of  "  Main-Traveled  Roads,"  Mr.  Garland  shows 
a  penetration  and  a  knowledge  and  a  sincerity  of  sympathy 
that  make  his  work  vital  and  effective,  even  if  at  times  it 
seems  to  be  too  regularly  keyed  to  misery  and  hopelessness. 
But  any  one  who  has  lived  in  the  Northwest,  and  is  at  all 
familiar  with  the  grim  conditions  of  the  average  farmer's 
family  even  a  few  years  ago,  will  be  likely  to  feel  that  Mr. 
Garland's  relentless  depiction  is,  though  heart-sickening, 
essentially  true. 

Few  more  convincing  and  powerful  pictures  of  Western 
provincial  types  can  be  found  than  those  in  "A  Branch 
Road,"  "Up  the  Coolly,"  and  "Under  the  Lion's  Paw"; 
while  underneath  the  tenderness  and  patient  suffering  of  "The 


A  Brief  Survey  of  the  Field  151 

Return  of  the  Private  "  is  felt  the  steel-like  edge  of  a  right- 
eous satire.  "  Mrs.  Ripley's  Trip  "  has  in  it  a  sort  of  sad 
humor  and  a  closeness  of  sympathetic  characterization  that 
makes  an  irresistible  appeal  to  the  heart  of  every  man  who 
perchance  recalls  the  laborious  and  conscientious  days  of  his 
own  unselfish  mother. 

The  jubilant  young  farmer,  Will  Hannan,  singing  in  the 
September  dawn,  or,  fiercely  jealous,  laboring  with  might 
and  main  in  the  strenuous  threshing,  or  at  meal-time  appar- 
ently ashamed  of  his  sweetheart's  open  preference  for  him- 
self in  the  presence  of  the  other  threshers;  his  savage 
resentment  at  their  use  of  Agnes  Dingman's  name  in  connec- 
tion with  his  own ;  and  his  bitter  refusal  to  wait  and  take 
supper  with  his  comrades  and  his  sweetheart,  —  this  is  the 
very  human  and  unconventional  opening  to  "A  Branch 
Road."  And  then  the  young  fellow's  eager  preparations  for 
the  county  fair,  his  swift  morning  ride  behind  the  lively  colts, 
the  maddening  accident  and  delay,  the  silent  house  and  the 
drawn  curtains  and  no  waiting  sweetheart,  and  his  blinding, 
merciless  rage,  with  all  it  involved  in  long  years  of  absence, 
misery  of  married  life  for  Agnes  Dingman,  and  bitter  repent- 
ance for  himself,  —  such  is  the  tragic  development  from 
small  beginnings ;  —  until  he  at  length  enters  into  the  cruelty 
of  his  old  sweetheart's  fate,  and  desperately  carries  her  and 
her  child  out  into  a  world  of  hope  and  the  happiness  of  love. 
Such  a  story  as  this  —  with  all  its  sympathy  for  nature  and 
for  human  nature  —  comes  near  to  reality,  and  confirms, 
like  the  other  stories  in  the  volume,  the  impression  of  un- 
relenting hardness  in  much  of  the  farmers'  experience  in  the 
great  Northwest  during  the  latter  half  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury. 


CHAPTER   XII 

" THE  ADVENTURES  OF  HUCKLEBERRY  FINN"  BY 
"MARK  TWAIN" 

IN  his  sense  of  duty  and  of  honor,  his  abounding  humor, 
his  energy  and  dauntless  pluck,  his  simplicity  and  sympathy 
and  fidelity,  Mr.  Clemens  is  justly  regarded  as  a  high  type 
of  an  American  citizen.  He  naturally  enough  comprehends 
pretty  fully  the  salient  characteristics  of  American  types, 
and  has,  besides,  the  literary  art  to  embody  them  in  enter- 
taining and  convincing  form.  The  impression  of  artistry  in 
his  work,  however,  is  likely  to  be  lost  in  a  laugh,  —  the  truth 
and  power  and  dramatic  quality  in  his  characterizations  are 
often  overlooked  in  the  effects  of  his  humor.  As  Mr.  How- 
ells  suggests,  "  Mark  Twain  portrays  and  interprets  real 
types,  not  only  with  exquisite  appreciation  and  sympathy, 
but  with  a  force  and  truth  of  drawing  that  makes  them  per- 
manent." And  the  especial  praise  of  the  literary  critics  is 
given  to  "  Huckleberry  Finn  "  for  its  essential  truthfulness 
to  certain  aspects  of  provincial  life  and  character  along  the 
Mississippi  and  the  borders  of  adjoining  states.  Professor 
Barrett  Wendell  in  our  own  country  and  Andrew  Lang  in 
England  have  both  borne  strong  testimony  to  the  value  and 
charm  of  this  portrayal  of  life  in  the  Mississippi  Valley  some 
fifty  years  ago. 

Mr.  Clemens's  own  boyhood  life  at  Hannibal,  Missouri, 
on  the  Mississippi  River,  and  his  years  as  a  pilot  on  the 

152 


"  The  Adventures  of  Huckleberry  Finn  "      153 

same  river,  gave  him  a  vivid  background  and  a  close  famil- 
iarity with  various  Southwestern  types  that  proved  invaluable 
in  the  production  of  such  a  book  as  "  Huckleberry  Finn." 

Huckleberry  Finn  first  became  known  to  the  reading 
world  as  the  companion  of  Tom  Sawyer,  of  whose  "  Adven- 
tures "  he  was  a  part.  Their  good  luck  in  finding  the 
money  hidden  by  the  robbers  in  a  cave  left  Huck  in  such 
affluent  circumstances  that  he  was  getting  a  dollar  a  day  in 
interest  —  "more  than  a  body  could  tell  what  to  do  with." 
He  had  been  adopted  by  the  Widow  Douglass,  who  was 
bent  on  civilizing  him ;  but  he  found  it  rough  living  in  the 
house  all  the  time,  considering  how  "  dismal  regular  and 
decent  the  widow  was  in  all  her  ways."  Her  attempt  to 
spiritualize  Huck  is  thus  described  by  himself:  "After 
supper  she  got  out  her  book  and  learned  me  about  Moses 
and  the  Bulrushers,  and  I  was  in  a  sweat  to  find  out  all 
about  him  ;  but  by  and  by  she  let  it  out  that  Moses  had  been 
dead  a  considerable  long  time ;  so  then  I  didn't  care  no 
more  about  him,  because  I  don't  take  no  stock  in  dead  peo- 
ple." And  Miss  Watson,  the  slim  old-maid  sister  of  the 
Widow,  "  took  a  set "  at  Huck,  also,  with  the  spelling-book 
and  frequent  injunctions  on  conduct.  Miss  Watson  would 
say,  "  Don't  put  your  feet  up  there,  Huckleberry ;  "  and, 
"  Don't  scrunch  up  like  that,  Huckleberry  —  set  up  straight ;  " 
and  a  little  later  she  would  say,  "Don't  gap  and  stretch 
like  that,  Huckleberry  —  why  don't  you  try  to  behave?" 
All  of  which  had  a  wearisome  effect  on  Huck.  He  called  it 
"  pecking  "  at  him.  "  Then  she  told  me  all  about  the  bad 
place,  and  I  said  I  wished  I  was  there.  She  got  mad  then, 
but  I  didn't  mean  no  harm.  All  I  wanted  was  to  get  some- 
wheres;  all  I  wanted  was  a  change;  I  warn't  particular. 
She  said  it  was  wicked  to  say  what  I  said ;  said  she  wouldn't 


154      Provincial  Types  in  the  Mississippi  Valley 

say  it  for  the  whole  world ;  she  was  going  to  live  so  as  to  go 
to  the  good  place.  Well,  I  couldn't  see  no  advantage  in 
going  where  she  was  going,  so  I  made  up  my  mind  I 
wouldn't  try  for  it."  The  morning  after  a  night  escapade 
with  Tom  Sawyer,  Miss  Watson  took  Huck  into  a  closet  and 
prayed  with  him,  and  told  him  to  pray  every  day,  remarking 
as  an  inducement  that  whatever  he  prayed  for  he  would  get. 
"  But  it  warn't  so.  I  tried  it.  Once  I  got  a  fishline,  but 
no  hooks.  It  warn't  any  good  to  me  without  hooks.  I 
tried  for  the  hooks  three  or  four  times,  but  somehow  I 
couldn't  make  it  work.  By  and  by,  one  day,  I  asked  Miss 
Watson  to  try  for  me,  but  she  said  I  was  a  fool."  However, 
the  widow  explained  to  her  prote"g£  that  he  must  pray  for 
"  spiritual  gifts." 

The  unexpected  appearance  of  Huck's  drunken  and  vaga- 
bond father  in  the  boy's  room  at  the  widow's  had,  for  a 
moment,  a  terrifying  effect  on  Huck.  After  looking  his  son 
all  over,  the  father  said,  with  a  critical  and  injured  air: 
"  Starchy  clothes  —  very.  You  think  you're  a  good  deal  of 
a  big-bug,  ^<9#'/you?"  To  which  Huck  was  non-commit- 
tal ;  and  the  father  continued  :  "  You've  put  on  considerable 
many  frills  since  I  been  away.  I'll  take  you  down  a  peg 
before  I  get  done  with  you.  You're  educated,  too,  they 
say  —  can  read  and  write.  You  think  you're  better'n  your 
father,  now,  don't  you,  because  he  can't?  /'//  take  it  out 
of  you.  Who  told  you  you  might  meddle  with  such  hifalut'n 
foolishness,  hey?  "  On  Huck's  reply  that  it  was  the  widow, 
the  father  threatened  to  "  learn  her  how  to  meddle,"  and 
then  added,  ominously  :  "  And  looky  here  —  you  drop  that 
school,  you  hear?  I'll  learn  people  to  bring  up  a  boy  to 
put  on  airs  over  his  own  father,  and  let  on  to  be  better'n 
what  he  is.  You  lemme  catch  you  fooling  around  that  school 


From   "  The    Adventures    of   Huckleberry   Finn." 
Copyright.  1800,  by  Harper  &  Brothers. 


"  The  Adventures  of  Huckleberry  Finn  "      1 55 

again,  you  hear?  Your  mother  couldn't  read,  and  she 
couldn't  write,  nuther,  before  she  died.  None  of  the  family 
couldn't  write  before  they  died.  I  can't ;  and  here  you're 
a-swelling  yourself  up  like  this.  I  ain't  the  man  to  stand  it 
—  you  hear?"  Asked  by  his  father  to  read  a  little,  as  an 
example  of  what  he  could  do,  Huck  read  something  about 
General  Washington  and  the  wars ;  when  suddenly  the  father 
struck  the  book  from  his  son's  hand  and  cried  out  angrily  : 
"  It's  so.  You  can  do  it.  I  had  my  doubts  when  you  told 
me.  Now,  looky  here ;  you  stop  that  putting  on  frills.  I 
won't  have  it.  I'll  lay  for  you,  my  smarty ;  and  if  I  catch 
you  about  that  school,  I'll  tan  you  good.  First  you  know 
you'll  get  religion.  I  never  see  such  a  son." 

To  show  his  superiority  to  the  widow  who  had  adopted 
Huck,  his  father  carried  him  off  up  the  river  to  an  old  log 
hut  he  had  made  the  headquarters  for  his  vagrant  life.  The 
intolerable  monotony  of  a  respectable  life  with  the  widow 
was  thus  done  away  with;  but  Huck  soon  found  that  his 
father's  restraint,  ugly  temper,  and  drunkenness,  finally 
culminating  in  a  night  of  delirium  tremens,  were  as  hard 
to  bear  as  the  widow's  respectability,  and  he  escaped  down 
the  river  to  Jackson's  Island.  The  next  morning  after  his 
arrival  he  lay  and  listened  to  the  booming  of  the  cannon 
by  which  they  were  endeavoring  to  find  his  dead  body  ;  and 
a  little  later  the  ferry-boat,  carrying  his  own  father,  Judge 
Thatcher,  who  had  invested  Huck's  money  for  him,  and 
Tom  Sawyer,  his  boon  companion,  came  floating  down 
close  to  the  island  in  its  effort  to  find  some  trace  of  the 
dead  Huck,  who  was  lying  behind  a  log  and  watching  the 
anxious  faces  of  his  friends. 

It  was  on  this  island  that  he  discovered  Miss  Watson's 
runaway  "  nigger,"  Jim,  just  as  he  was  waking  at  dawn  by 


156      Provincial  Types  in  the  Mississippi  Valley 

the  side  of  his  camp-fire.  Jim,  in  his  amazement  at  seeing 
Huck,  who  had  been  reported  murdered,  suddenly  sprang 
up,  and  then  dropped  upon  his  knees  and  put  his  hands 
together,  crying  superstitiously  :  "  Doan'  hurt  me  —  don't ! 
I  hain't  ever  done  no  harm  to  a  ghos'.  I  awlus  liked  dead 
people,  en  done  all  I  could  for  'em.  Yo  go  en  git  in  de 
river  agin,  whah  you  b'longs,  en  doan'  do  nuffin'  to  Ole 
Jim,  'at  'uz  awluz  yo'  fr'en'."  But  Jim  was  soon  so  much 
reassured  that  he  told  Huck  all  the  details  of  his  own 
escape.  He  even  grew  confidential  and  told  Huck  about 
his  past  speculation  in  stock,  —  a  cow,  and  in  a  bank 
set  up  by  "  Misto  Bradish's  nigger,"  —  at  the  end  of  which 
Jim  had  only  ten  cents  left.  "  Well,  I  'uz  gwyne  to  spen' 
it,  but  I  had  a  dream,  'en  de  dream  tole  me  to  give  it  to  a 
nigger  name'  Balum  —  Balum's  Ass  dey  call  him  for  short ; 
he's  one  er  dem  chuckle-heads,  you  know.  But  he's 
lucky,  dey  say,  en  I  see  I  warn't  lucky.  De  dream  say  let 
Balum  inves'  de  ten  cents  en  he'd  make  a  raise  for  me. 
Well,  Balum  he  tuck  de  money,  en  when  he  wuz  in  church 
he  hear  de  preacher  say  dat  whoever  give  to  de  po'  len'  to 
de  Lord,  en  boun'  to  git  his  money  back  a  hund'd  times. 
So  Balum  he  tuck  en  give  de  ten  cents  to  de  po',  en  laid 
low  to  see  what  wuz  gwyne  to  come  of  it."  To  Huck's 
inquiry  as  to  what  did  come  of  it,  the  darky  replied : 
"  Nuffin  never  come  of  it.  I  couldn'  manage  to  k'leck  dat 
money  no  way ;  en  Balum  he  couldn'.  I  ain'  gwyne  to 
len'  no  mo'  money  'dout  I  see  de  security.  Boun'  to  git 
yo'  money  back  a  hund'd  times,  de  preacher  says  !  Ef  I 
could  git  de  ten  cents  back,  I'd  call  it  squah,  en  be  glad 
er  de  chanst."  Huck's  hopeful  suggestion  that  Jim  was 
going  to  be  rich  sometime  or  other  —  according  to  Jim's 
own  prophecy  —  called  to  the  negro's  mind  the  happy 


"The  Adventures  of  Huckleberry  Finn"      157 

thought  that  he  was  already  rich.  "  I  owns  myse'f,  en 
I's  wuth  eight  hund'd  dollars.  I  wisht  I  had  de  money,  I 
wouldn'  want  no  mo'." 

Huck's  discovery  —  in  the  guise  of  a  girl  —  that  there 
was  a  reward  out  for  the  capture  of  Jim  and  that  Jackson's 
Island  was  a  dangerous  place,  was  the  signal  for  their  hur- 
ried departure  from  the  island  by  night.  The  second  night 

—  they  concealed  themselves  in  a   "  towhead  "  of  cotton- 
woods  during  the  day  —  the  raft  they  were  on  ran  between 
seven   and  eight    hours,  with   a   current  that  carried  them 
along  over  four  miles  an  hour.     "  It  was  kind  of  solemn," 
as  Huck  said,  "drifting  down  the  big  still  river,  laying  on 
our  backs  looking  up  at  the  stars,  and  we  didn't  ever   feel 
like  talking  loud,  and  it  warn't  often  that  we   laughed  — 
only  a  little  kind  of  a  low  chuckle.  .  .  .     Every  night  we 
passed  towns,  some  of  them  away  up   on   black   hillsides 
nothing  but  just  a  shiny  bed  of  lights  ;  not  a  house  could  you 
see.     The  fifth  night  we  passed  St.  Louis,  and  it  was  like  the 
whole  world  lit  up.     In   St.  Petersburg   they   used   to  say 
there   was  twenty  or  thirty  thousand  people  in  St.  Louis, 
but  I  never  believed  it  till  I  see  that  wonderful  spread  of 
lights  at  two  o'clock  that  still  night.     There  warn't  a  sound 
there  ;  everybody  was  asleep." 

Huck's  escape  from  the  wreck  of  the  raft  that  had  been 
smashed  by  a  steamboat  in  the  night  brought  him  to  the  big 
old-fashioned  double  log  house  of  Colonel  Grangerford, 
whose  dogs  refused  to  let  the  dripping  Huck  go  by.  After 
a  very  warlike  examination  of  Huck,  he  was  gradually  ad- 
mitted to  the  house ;  and  when  it  was  learned  that  he  was  in 
no  way  connected  with  the  rival  house  of  the  Shepherdsons, 

—  between  whom  and  the  Grangerfords  there  was  a  deadly 
feud,  —  Huck  was  very  hospitably  received  and  compassion- 


158      Provincial  Types  in  the  Mississippi  Valley 

ately  entertained  on  the  strength  of  his  trumped-up  story. 
In  the  admiring  words  of  Huck :  "  It  was  a  mighty  nice 
family,  and  a  mighty  nice  house,  too.  I  hadn't  seen  no 
house  out  in  the  country  before  that  was  so  nice  and  had  so 
much  style.  It  didn't  have  an  iron  latch  on  the  front  door, 
nor  a  wooden  one  with  a  buckskin  string,  but  a  brass  knob 
to  turn,  the  same  as  houses  in  a  town.  There  warn't  no 
bed  in  the  parlor,  nor  a  sign  of  a  bed ;  but  heaps  of  parlors 
in  towns  has  beds  in  them.  There  was  a  big  fireplace  that 
was  bricked  on  the  bottom,  and  the  bricks  was  kept  clean 
and  red  by  pouring  water  on  them  and  scrubbing  them  with 
another  brick.  .  .  .  They  had  big  brass  dog-irons  that 
could  hold  up  a  saw-log."  There  was  also  a  wonderful  clock 
("  it  was  beautiful  to  hear  that  clock  tick  "),  and  some  books 
piled  up  with  perfect  exactness  on  each  corner  of  the  table. 
"  One  was  a  big  family  Bible  full  of  pictures.  One  was  '  Pil- 
grim's Progress,'  about  a  man  that  left  his  family,  it  didn't 
say  why.  I  read  considerable  in  it  now  and  then.  The 
statements  was  interesting  but  tough.  Another  was  '  Friend- 
ship's Offering,'  full  of  beautiful  stuif  and  poetry ;  but  I 
didn't  read  the  poetry.  Another  was  { Henry  Clay's 
Speeches,'  and  another  was  Dr.  Gunn's  '  Family  Medicine,' 
which  told  you  all  about  what  to  do  if  a  body  was  sick  or 
dead."  Among  the  pictures  were  some  strange  crayons 
made  at  the  age  of  fifteen  by  a  daughter  who  had  since  died. 
"  One  was  a*  woman  in  a  slim  black  dress,  belted  small  under 
the  armpits,  with  bulges  like  a  cabbage  in  the  middle  of  the 
sleeves,  and  a  large  black  scoop-shovel  bonnet  with  a  black 
veil,  and  white  slim  ankles  crossed  about  with  black  tape, 
and  very  wee  black  slippers,  like  a  chisel,  and  she  was  lean- 
ing pensive  on  a  tombstone  on  her  right  elbow,  under  a 
weeping  willow,  and  her  other  hand  hanging  down  her  side 


"The  Adventures  of  Huckleberry  Finn*'      159 

holding  a  white  handkerchief  and  a  reticule,  and  underneath 
the  picture  it  said  '  Shall  I  Never  See  Thee  More  Alas.' " 
A  second  crayon  was  entitled  "  I  Shall  Never  Hear  Thy 
Sweet  Chirrup  More  Alas,"  and  another  bore  the  pathetic 
announcement,  "  And  Art  Thou  Gone  Yes  Thou  Art  Gone 
Alas."  Huck  has  given  us  his  critical  judgment  on  these 
pictures  and  also  their  effect  on  his  feelings.  "  These  was 
all  nice  pictures,  I  reckon,  but  I  didn't  somehow  seem  to 
take  to  them,  because  if  ever  I  was  down  a  little  they  always 
give  me  the  fan-tods." 

In  the  eyes  of  Huck  the  proprietor  of  the  place  was  a 
gentleman  —  "a  gentleman  all  over."  Colonel  Granger- 
ford —  and  he  must  have  been  some  near  relative  of  the 
colonel's  drawn  with  so  much  spirit  and  liking  by  Mr.  Page 
and  Hopkinson  Smith  —  was  "  very  tall  and  very  slim,  and 
had  a  darkish-paly  complexion,  not  a  sign  of  red  in  it  any- 
wheres ;  he  was  clean  shaved  every  morning  all  over  his  thin 
face,  and  he  had  the  thinnest  kind  of  lips,  and  the  thinnest 
kind  of  nostrils,  and  a  high  nose,  and  heavy  eyebrows,  and 
the  blackest  kind  of  eyes,  sunk  so  deep  back  that  they 
seemed  like  they  was  looking  out  of  caverns  at  you,  as  you 
may  say.  His  forehead  was  high,  and  his  hair  was  black 
and  straight  and  hung  to  his  shoulders.  His  hands  was  long 
and  thin,  and  every  day  of  his  life  he  put  on  a  clean  shirt 
and  a  full  suit  from  head  to  foot  made  out  of  linen  so  white 
it  hurt  your  eyes  to  look  at  it;  and  on  Sundays  he  wore  a 
blue  tail-coat  with  brass  buttons  on  it."  He  had  a  personal 
dignity  that  Huck  was  impressed  by,  and  a  pervasive  kind- 
liness, and  his  smile  was  good  to  see.  In  his  presence  man- 
ners were  instinctively  good,  and  there  was  a  genial  sunshine 
about  the  man  that  every  one  liked ;  "  but  when  he  straight- 
ened himself  up  like  a  liberty-pole,  and  the  lightning  began 


160      Provincial  Types  in  the  Mississippi  Valley 

to  flicker  out  from  under  his  eyebrows,  you  wanted  to  climb 
a  tree  first,  and  find  out  what  the  matter  was  afterwards." 

The  tall,  handsome  older  sons,  Tom  and  Bob,  dressed,  like 
their  father,  in  white  linen  from  head  to  foot,  and  wore  broad 
Panama  hats ;  and  in  their  home  life  they  had  been  reared 
to  show  especial  courtesy  to  the  parents.  On  the  latter's 
arrival  in  the  dining  room  the  sons  always  rose  from  their 
chairs  and  remained  standing  till  their  parents  were  seated ; 
and  after  mixing  at  the  sideboard  a  glass  of  bitters  for  their 
father  and  then  for  themselves,  they  would  bow  and  say, 
"Our  duty  to  you,  sir  and  madam." 

But  this  Southern  family,  so  chivalrous  and  courtly  toward 
one  another,  were  in  deadly  feud  with  their  neighbors,  the 
rival  family  of  the  Shepherdsons.  Huck's  ignorance  of  a 
feud  was  somewhat  lessened  by  Buck  Grangerford's  defini- 
tion :  "  Well,  a  feud  is  this  way  :  A  man  has  a  quarrel  with 
another  man,  and  kills  him ;  then  that  other  man's  brother 
kills  him;  then  the  other  brothers,  on  both  sides,  goes  for 
one  another ;  then  the  cousins  chip  in  —  and  by  and  by 
everybody's  killed  off,  and  there  ain't  no  more  feud.  But 
it's  kind  of  slow,  and  takes  a  long  time."  Buck  also  in- 
formed Huck  that  their  own  feud  started  some  thirty  years 
before,  when  there  was  "  trouble  'bout  something,"  a  law- 
suit, and  a  shooting  of  the  man  who  won  the  suit  by  the  man 
who  lost.  Buck  was  entirely  ignorant  of  the  cause  of  the 
trouble  and  whether  it  was  a  Grangerford  or  a  Shepherd- 
son  that  did  the  shooting ;  but  he  thought  that  perhaps  his 
father  knew.  To  Huck's  question  as  to  whether  many  had 
been  killed  in  the  feud,  Buck  cheerfully  replied :  "  Yes ; 
right  smart  chance  of  funnerals.  But  they  don't  always  kill. 
Pa's  got  a  few  buckshot  in  him ;  but  he  don't  mind  it  'cuz 
•he  don't  weigh  much,  anyway.  Bob's  been  carved  up  some 


"  The  Adventures  of  Huckleberry  Finn"      161 

with  a  bowie,  and  Tom's  been  hurt  once  or  twice."  "  Has 
anybody  been  killed  this  year,  Buck  ? "  inquired  Huck. 
"  Yes  ;  we  got  one  and  they  got  one." 

Buck,  in  a  truly  chivalrous  spirit,  insisted  that  there  wasn't 
a  coward  among  "  them  Shepherdsons,"  even  if  they  were 
inveterate  enemies.  "Why,  that  old  man  [Shepherdson] 
kep'  up  his  end  in  a  fight  one  day  for  half  an  hour  against 
three  Grangerfords,  and  come  out  winner.  They  was  all 
a-horseback ;  he  lit  off  of  his  horse  and  got  behind  a  little 
woodpile,  and  kep'  his  horse  before  him  to  stop  the  bullets ; 
but  the  Grangerfords  stayed  on  their  horses  and  capered 
around  the  old  man,  and  peppered  away  at  him,  and  he 
peppered  away  at  them.  Him  and  his  horse  both  went 
home  pretty  leaky  and  crippled,  but  the  Grangerfords  had 
to  be  fetched  home,  and  one  of  'em  was  dead,  and  another 
died  the  next  day.  No,  sir  ;  if  a  body's  out  hunting  for 
cowards,  he  don't  want  to  fool  away  any  time  amongst  them 
Shepherdsons,  becuz  they  don't  breed  any  of  that  kind." 

And  Huck  himself,  from  his  lookout  in  a  tree,  was  to  see 
Buck  Grangerford  and  another  young  man  shot  to  death 
by  the  merciless  Shepherdsons,  one  of  whose  number  had 
run  off  in  the  night  with  Colonel  Grangerford's  younger 
daughter, 

Mr.  Clemens's  theme  of  savage  and  absurd  family  wars 
in  the  South,  while  treated  in  his  own  unique  and  satirical 
way,  is  suggestive  of  the  annihilating  contest  described  by 
John  T.  Fox,  Jr.,  in  his  "Cumberland  Vendetta,"  and  of 
the  remorseless  hatred  of  the  Cayce  family  for  Micajah 
Green,  as  portrayed  so  dramatically  by  Miss  Murfree  in 
"  The  Prophet  of  the  Great  Smoky  Mountains." 

Two  sublime  types  of  professional  humbugs,  such  as 
must  now  and  then  visit  gullible  small  towns  along  the 


1 62      Provincial  Types  in  the  Mississippi  Valley 

Mississippi  in  the  Southwest,  are  the  "Duke  of  Bridge- 
water  "  and  the  "  King, "  whom  Huck,  under  mental  protest, 
rescued  from  an  outraged  community.  The  King  was 
about  seventy,  with  a  bald  head  and  very  gray  whiskers. 
He  wore  an  old  battered-up  slouch  hat,  a  greasy  blue 
woolen  shirt,  and  ragged  old  blue  jeans  breeches  stuffed  into 
his  boot-tops,  and  home-knit  "galluses,"  —  or  rather  only 
one ;  and  when  rescued  he  and  his  companion,  the  Duke, 
were  each  carrying  a  "big,  fat,  ratty-looking"  carpet-bag. 
They  proved  to  be  strangers  to  each  other,  and  in  ex- 
plaining the  cause  of  his  trouble  the  Duke  said  to  his  new- 
found acquaintance  :  "  Well,  I'd  been  selling  an  article  to 
take  the  tartar  off  the  teeth,  —  and  it  does  take  it  off,  too, 
and  gener'ly  the  enamel  along  with  it,  —  but  I  stayed  about 
one  night  longer  than  I  ought  to,  and  was  just  in  the  act 
of  sliding  out  when  I  ran  across  you  on  the  trail  this  side 
of  town.  .  .  .  That's  the  whole  yarn,  what's  yourn?" 
To  which  the  King  replied,  with  a  little  more  detail : 
"Well,  I'd  ben  a-runnin'  a  little  temperance  revival  thar 
'bout  a  week,  and  was  the  pet  of  the  women-folks,  big  and 
little,  for  I  was  makin'  it  mighty  warm  for  the  rummies,  I 
tell  you,  and  takin'  as  much  as  five  or  six  dollars  a  night  — 
ten  cents  a  head,  children  and  niggers  free  —  and  business 
a-growin'  all  the  time,  when  somehow  or  another  a  little 
report  got  around  last  night  that  I  had  a  way  of  puttin' 
in  my  time  with  a  private  jug  on  the  sly.  A  nigger  rousted 
me  out  this  mornin'  and  told  me  the  people  was  getherin' 
on  the  quiet  with  their  dogs  and  horses,  and  they'd  be 
along  pretty  soon  and  give  me  'bout  half  an  hour's  start, 
and  then  run  me  down  if  they  could ;  and  if  they  got  me 
they'd  tar  and  feather  me  and  ride  me  on  a  railj  sure.  I 
didn't  wait  for  no  breakfast  —  I  warn't  hungry.,'* 


"  The  Adventures  of  Huckleberry  Finn"      163 

It  seemed  feasible  that  these  two  "  professionals  "  should 
from  this  time  forth  reenforce  each  other's  talents,  the  Duke 
of  Bridge  water  (the  King  called  it  "  Bilge  water ")  ex- 
plaining first  what  his  "  line  "  was  :  "  Jour  printer  by  trade  ; 
do  a  little  in  patent  medicines;  theater-actor  —  tragedy, 
you  know ;  take  a  turn  to  mesmerism  and  phrenology  when 
there's  a  chance;  teach  singing  —  geography  school  for  a 
change;  sling  a  lecture  sometimes — oh,  I  do  lots  of  things 
—  most  anything  that  comes  handy,  so  it  ain't  work." 
The  King  then  explained  his  "  lay  "  :  "  I've  done  consider- 
able in  the  doctoring  way  in  my  time.  Layin'  on  o'  hands  is 
my  best  holt  —  for  cancer  and  paralysis,  and  sich  things ; 
and  I  k'n  tell  a  fortune  pretty  good  when  I've  got  somebody 
along  to  find  out  the  facts  for  me.  Preachin's  my  line,  too, 
and  workin'  camp-meetin's  and  missionaryin'  around." 

Learning  that  a  camp-meeting  was  being  held  in  the 
woods  some  two  miles  back  from  the  little  river  town  near 
which  the  raft  was  tied  up  for  the  day,  the  King  "  allowed  " 
that  he  would  go  and  "  work  it "  for  all  it  was  worth,  and 
permitted  Huck  to  go  with  him.  The  first  shed  they  came 
to  contained  a  preacher  that  was  "lining"  out  a  hymn. 
He  lined  out  two  lines  and  everybody  sang  them ;  and  then 
he  lined  out  two  more  for  them  to  sing,  and  so  on  indefi- 
nitely. The  people  grew  more  and  more  animated,  and 
sang  louder  and  louder ;  and  toward  the  end  some  began  to 
groan  and  some  to  shout.  The  preacher  was  of  the  loud- 
voiced,  hortatory,  unctuous  type  that  Mr.  Eggleston  has 
illustrated  in  "  Rev.  Mr.  Bosaw "  and  Miss  Murfree  in 
"  Brother  Jake  Tobin."  In  the  language  of  Huck  :  "  He  went 
weaving  first  to  one  side  of  the  platform  and  then  the  other, 
and  then  a-leaning  down  over  the  front  of  it,  with  his  arms 
and  his  body  going  all  the  time,  and  shouting  his  words  out 


164      Provincial  Types  in  the  Mississippi  Valley 

with  all  his  might ;  and  every  now  and  then  he  would  hold 
up  his  Bible  and  spread  it  open  and  kind  of  pass  it  around 
this  way  and  that,  shouting,  '  It's  the  brazen  serpent  in  the 
wilderness  !  Look  upon  it  and  live  ! '  and  people  would 
shout  out,  '  Glory  !  —  A-a.-men  !  '  And  so  he  went  on,  and 
the  people  groaning  and  crying  and  saying  Amen  :  '  Oh, 
come  to  the  mourners'  bench !  come,  black  with  sin ! 
(amen  /)  come,  sick  and  sore  !  (amen  /)  come,  lame  and 
halt  and  blind  !  (amen  /)  come,  pore  and  needy,  sunk  in 
shame  !  (a-a-men  /)  Come,  all  that's  worn  and  soiled  and 
suffering  !  —  come  with  a  broken  spirit  !  come  with  a  con- 
trite heart !  come  in  your  rags  and  sin  and  dirt  !  the  waters 
that  cleanse  is  free,  the  door  of  heaven  stands  open  —  oh, 
enter  in  and  be  at  rest !  (A-a-men, glory,  glory  hallelujah  /)  '  " 
The  shouting  and  crying,  as  reported  by  Huck,  became  so 
great  that  the  preacher's  words  could  no  longer  be  distin- 
guished. People  rose  in  all  parts  of  the  crowd  and  made 
their  way  by  sheer  strength  to  the  mourners'  bench,  with  the 
tears  streaming  down  their  faces  ;  and  when  the  mourners 
had  filled  the  front  benches  in  a  throng,  they  sang  and 
shouted  and  flung  themselves  down  on  the  straw,  "just  crazy 
and  wild." 

By  playing  the  part  of  a  converted  pirate  who  had  been 
robbed  the  night  before,  and  was  now  returning  to  the 
Indian  Ocean  to  convert  his  brother  pirates,  the  King 
was  able  to  carry  back  to  the  raft  some  eighty-seven  dollars 
and  seventy-five  cents  which  he  had  "gathered  in  "  at  the 
camp-meeting  by  a  skillful  appeal  from  the  platform  and 
passing  the  hat  for  a  collection.  He  promised  to  say  to 
every  pirate  converted,  "  Don't  you  thank  me,  don't  you 
give  me  no  credit ;  it  all  belongs  to  them  dear  people  in 
Pokeville  camp-meeting,  natural  brothers  and  benefactors 


"  The  Adventures  of  Huckleberry  Finn"      165 

of  the  race,  and  that  dear  preacher  there,  the  truest  friend 
a  pirate  ever  had  !  "  And  the  King  had  brought  back  with 
him,  too,  a  three-gallon  jug  of  whisky,  which  he  had  found 
under  a  wagon  when  he  was  starting  for  the  raft  through  the 
woods.  To  use  Huck's  report :  "The  King  said,  take  it  all 
around,  it  laid  over  any  day  he'd  ever  put  in  in  the  mission- 
arying  line.  He  said  it  warn't  no  use  talking,  heathens  don't 
amount  to  shucks  alongside  of  pirates  to  work  a  camp-meet- 
ing with." 

A  truly  Southern  provincial  type  is  the  fierce-natured, 
cool-headed  Colonel  Sherborne  who  shot  down  in  cold 
blood  the  drunken,  good-natured,  but  abusive  Boggs ;  and 
when  the  mob  threatened  him  with  lynching,  his  accurate 
knowledge  of  them  was  shown  by  his  sudden  appearance  on 
the  porch  of  his  home  and  his  cool  defiance,  characteristic- 
ally reenforced  by  a  shot  gun :  "  The  idea  of  you  lynching 
anybody  !  It's  amusing.  The  idea  of  you  thinking  you  had 
pluck  enough  to  lynch  a  man!  .  .  .  You  didn't  want  to 
come.  .  .  .  But  if  only  /fo^-a-man  —  like  Buck  Harkness, 
there  —  shouts  '  Lynch  him  !  lynch  him ! '  you're  afraid  to 
back  down  —  afraid  you'll  be  found  out  to  be  what  you 
are  —  cowards  —  and  so  you  raise  a  yell,  and  hang  your- 
selves on  to  that  half-a-man's  coat-tail,  and  come  raging  up 
here,  swearing  what  big  things  you're  going  to  do.  The 
pitifulest  thing  out  is  a  mob ;  that's  what  an  army  is  —  a 
mob ;  they  don't  fight  with  courage  that's  born  in  them, 
but  with  courage  that's  borrowed  from  their  mass,  and  from 
their  officers.  But  a  mob  without  any  man  at  the  head 
of  it  is  beneath  pitifulness.  Now  the  thing  for  you  to  do  is 
droop  your  tails  and  go  home  and  crawl  in  a  hole.  .  .  .  Now 
leave — and  take  your  half-a-man  with  you."  As  the 
Colonel  tossed  his  gun  up  across  his  left  arm  and  cocked 


1 66      Provincial  Types  in  the  Mississippi  Valley 

it,  the  mob  "  washed  back  sudden,"  broke  apart,  and  dashed 
into  a  wild  run,  with  the  "  half-a-man  "  bringing  up  the  rear. 
Old  Uncle  Silas  Phelps,  the  easy-going,  inconsequential 
farmer  and  preacher,  who  had  a  little  log  church  down  back 
of  the  plantation  and  "never  charged  nothing  for  his 
preaching,  and  it  was  worth  it,  too  " ;  the  generous-souled, 
credulous,  and  motherly  Aunt  Sally;  and  the  versatile,  un- 
conscionable Tom  Sawyer,  who  insisted  on  freeing  in  formal 
and  adventurous  style  the  negro  Jim  that  was  already  free, 
—  these  are  additional  types  in  "  Huckleberry  Finn  "  that 
Mr.  Clemens  has  characterized  with  easy  and  inimitable 
touch.  In  fact,  much  of  the  characterization  in  the  book 
seems  wrought  out  of  the  closest  familiarity  "with  those 
strange,  crude,  virile  types  that  belonged  to  life  along  the 
Mississippi  half  a  century  ago. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

"THE   HOOSIER   SCHOOLMASTER"   BY  EDWARD 
EGGLESTON 

IN  writing  a  few  years  ago,  in  the  Forum,  on  the  "  For- 
mative Influences  "  of  his  own  life,  Mr.  Eggleston  remarked 
discriminatingly :  "  If  I  were  a  dispassionate  critic,  and 
were  set  to  judge  my  own  novels  as  the  writings  of  another, 
I  should  have  to  say  that  what  distinguishes  them  from  other 
works  of  fiction  is  the  prominence  which  they  give  to  social 
conditions ;  that  the  individual  characters  are  here  treated 
to  a  greater  degree  than  elsewhere  as  parts  of  a  study  of  a 
society  —  as  in  some  sense  the  logical  results  of  the  environ- 
ment. Whatever  may  be  the  rank  assigned  to  these  stories 
as  works  of  literary  art,  they  will  always  have  a  certain  value 
as  materials  for  the  student  of  social  history.  Not  that  in 
writing  them  any  such  purpose  was  consciously  present ;  it 
is  what  we  do  without  exactly  intending  it  that  is  most  char- 
acteristic." 

The  old-time  residents  of  Indiana  have  themselves  ac- 
cepted "The  Hoosier  Schoolmaster"  as  essentially  true  to 
the  life  and  manners  of  Southern  Indiana  half  a  century  ago. 
The  sordid,  brutal,  lawless  West  of  the  days  before  the  rail- 
roads, with  its  hardness  and  wickedness  as  well  as  its  courage 
and  heroic  industry,  Mr.  Eggleston  seems  to  have  known 
and  understood.  And  it  is  not  at  all  surprising,  for  his  own 
life  in  Indiana  on  a  farm  and  as  a  Methodist "  circuit  rider/' 

167 


1 68      Provincial  Types  in  the  Mississippi  Valley 

and  also  on  the  frontier  in  Minnesota  in  search  of  health, 
gave  him  a  vital  closeness  to  primitive  types  among  the  pri- 
vations and  struggles  that  were  a  necessary  part  of  the  earlier 
history  of  the  West.  In  truth,  so  close  a  reflection  of  provin- 
cial life  under  such  conditions  is  not  entirely  captivating,  hav- 
ing a  certain  repulsiveness  ;  yet  it  has  great  interest  because 
it  is  a  transcript,  and  because  it  is  often  intensely  dramatic. 
Few  families  could  be  less  attractive  to  a  young  and  some- 
what educated  man  than  was  that  of  "  old  Jack  Means,"  the 
school  trustee  to  whom  the  prospective  "schoolmaster"  ap- 
plied for  a  place  as  teacher  of  the  "  Flat  Crick "  district 
school.  Old  Jack  was  not  encouraging  the  young  aspirant : 
"  You  might  teach  a  summer  school,  when  nothin'  but  chil- 
dren come.  But  I  'low  it  takes  a  right  smart  man  to  be 
schoolmaster  in  Flat  Crick  in  the  winter.  They'd  pitch  you 
out  of  doors,  sonny,  neck  and  heels,  afore  Christmas." 
"  Bud  "  Means,  the  elder  son,  was  meanwhile  measuring  the 
applicant  by  the  standard  of  muscle,  with  that  amiable  look  in 
his  eye  "  which  a  big  dog  turns  on  a  little  one  before  shak- 
ing him."  Bud's  sister,  in  the  doorway,  was  giggling  over 
the  prospect  of  seeing  their  large  brindle  bulldog  "take 
hold  "  of  the  applicant  for  the  school,  when  the  old  man 
himself  called  off  the  dog,  remarking  as  he  did  so  :  "  Ef  you 
think  you  kin  trust  your  hide  in  Flat  Crick  schoolhouse  I 
ha'n't  got  no  'bjection.  But  ef  you  git  licked  don't  come 
on  us.  Flat  Crick  don't  pay  no  'nsurance,  you  bet."  He 
then  suggestively  added  that  the  last  schoolmaster  carried  a 
black  eye  for  a  month.  However,  Ralph  Hartsook,  the 
applicant,  was  given  permission  by  Mr.  Means  to  begin  work 
at  the  school,  and  invited  to  stay  over  Sunday  with  the 
Means  family,  in  the  process  of  "boardin'  roun'."  Bud 
Means  thereupon  remarked  reassuringly,  with  reference  to 


"The  Hoosier  Schoolmaster"  169 

the  threatening  attitude  of  the  dog,  "  Ef  Bull  once  takes  a 
holt,  heaven  and  yarth  can't  make  him  let  go." 

After  the  first  few  days  of  discouraging  experience  and  a 
deliberate  effort  to  assume  something  of  the  bulldog's  per- 
tinacity, the  young  schoolmaster  had  this  judgment  passed 
upon  him  by  Mr.  Pete  Jones,  an  influential  neighbor  of  Mr. 
Means :  "  Don't  believe  he'll  do.  Don't  thrash  enough. 
Boys  won't  1'arn  'less  you  thrash  'em,  says  I.  Leastways, 
mine  won't.  Lay  it  on  good  is  what  I  says  to  a  master. 
Lay  it  on  good.  .  .  .  Lickin'  and  1'arnin'  goes  together. 
No  lickin',  no  1'arnin',  says  I." 

One  morning  before  school,  while  sitting  on  the  broad 
hearth  smoking  her  cob  pipe,  old  "  Miss  "  Means  grew  confi- 
dential to  the  young  schoolmaster,  letting  him  know  some- 
thing of  the  family's  early  history,  —  how  on  her  advice  her 
husband  had  invested  years  before  in  "  Congress  "  bottom 
land  at  a  dollar  and  a  quarter  an  acre  :  "  I  says  to  my  ole 
man,  '  Jack,'  says  I,  '  Jack,  do  you  git  a  plenty  while  you're 
a-gittin'.  Git  a  plenty  while  you're  a-gittm','  says  I,  '  fer 
'twon't  never  be  no  cheaper'n  'tis  now,'  and  it  ha'n't  been ; 
I  knowed  'twouldn't."  Taking  the  pipe  from  her  mouth  to 
indulge  in  a  reminiscent  chuckle  at  her  own  financial  shrewd- 
ness, Mrs.  Means  continued  :  "  Jack  didn't  git  rich  by  hard 
work.  Bless  you,  no  !  Not  him.  That  a'n't  his  way.  Hard 
work  a'n't,  you  know.  'Twas  that  air  six  hundred  dollars 
he  got  along  of  me,  all  salted  down  into  Flat  Crick  bottoms 
at  a  dollar  and  a  quarter  a'  acre,  and  'twas  my  sayin',  '  git 
a  plenty  while  you're  a-gittin','  as  done  it."  And  then 
Mrs.  Means  diplomatically  suggested  that  the  man  who  got 
her  daughter  "  Mirandy  "  —  a  weak-eyed  and  weak-headed 
giggler — would  do  well — "  Flat  Crick  land's  wuth  nigh  upon 
a  hundred  a'  acre." 


170      Provincial  Types  in  the  Mississippi  Valley 

The  most  important  social  event  in  the  Flat  Crick  school 
district  was  the  spelling-school.  Every  family  furnished  a 
candle,  and  there  were  yellow  "  dips  "  and  white  dips  smok- 
ing and  flaring.  And  there  was  much  ogling  and  giggling, 
flirting  and  courting.  "  I  'low,"  said  Mr.  Means,  the  prin- 
cipal trustee,  "  I  'low  our  friend  the  Square  is  jest  the  man 
to  boss  this  'ere  consarn  to-night.  If  nobody  objects,  I'll 
app'int  him.  Come,  Square,  don't  be  bashful."  The  Squire 
came  to  the  front,  and  the  new  schoolmaster  made  an  in- 
ventory of  his  appearance.  He  wore  an  aged  swallowtail 
coat  somewhat  too  small  for  him,  a  pair  of  black  gloves 
(gloves  in  Flat  Crick  were  an  anomaly)  j  a  dirty,  waxen-col- 
ored wig,  which  required  frequent  adjustment  to  the  Squire's 
smooth  pate  and  was  of  the  wrong  color ;  a  semicircular  row 
of  whiskers  dyed  an  impossible  dead  black ;  a  pair  of  spec- 
tacles with  tortoise-shell  rim ;  a  glass  eye  differing  in  color 
from  its  natural  mate,  and  perpetually  turning  in  and  out ; 
and  a  set  of  badly-fitting  false  teeth. 

In  accepting  the  honor  of  presiding,  Squire  Hawkins  re- 
marked, with  a  characteristic  twist  of  his  wig  :  "  I  feel  as  if 
I  could  be  grandiloquent  on  this  interesting  occasion,  but 
raley  I  must  forego  any  such  exertions.  It  is  spelling  you 
want.  Spelling  is  the  corner-stone,  the  grand  underlying 
subterfuge,  of  a  good  eddication.  I  put  the  spellin'-book 
prepared  by  the  great  Daniel  Webster  alongside  the  Bible. 
I  do,  raley.  I  think  I  may  put  it  ahead  of  the  Bible.  For 
if  it  wurn't  fer  spellin'-books  and  sich  occasions  as  these, 
where  would  the  Bible  be?  I  should  like  to  know.  The 
man  who  got  up,  who  compounded  this  work  of  inextricable 
valoo,  was  a  benefactor  to  the  whole  human  race  or  any 
other."  Hereupon  the  Squire's  spectacles  fell  off,  he  gave 
his  wig  another  twist,  and  apprehensively  felt  of  his  glass  eye. 


"The  Hoosier  Schoolmaster"  171 

In  the  contest  Jim  Phillips,  a  tall,  lank,  "  stoop  -shoul- 
dered "  fellow,  who  had  spelled  down  the  last  three  masters, 
was  pitted  against  the  new  schoolmaster.  Jim  spelled  as  if 
he  "knew  more  about  the  spelling-book  than  old  Noah 
Webster  himself."  It  was  done  eagerly,  confidently,  and 
brilliantly,  and  the  odds,  in  the  eyes  of  the  company,  were 
all  in  Phillips's  favor,  —  especially  since  the  young  school- 
master spelled  with  a  certain  hesitation  and  deliberateness 
that  seemed  to  argue  lack  of  confidence,  but  really  meant 
only  a  dogged  determination  to  win.  But  "theodolite" 
proved  too  much  for  the  redoubtable  Jim ;  and  as  Ralph, 
the  schoolmaster,  spelled  it  slowly  and  correctly,  the  excite- 
ment was  so  great  that  the  spelling  was  suspended  for  a  few 
minutes.  "He's  powerful  smart  is  the  master,"  said  old 
Jack  Means,  the  school  trustee,  exultingly.  "  He'll  beat  the 
whole  kit  and  tuck  of  'em  afore  he's  through.  I  know'd  he 
was  smart.  That's  the  reason  I  tuck  him."  "Yaas,  but 
he  don't  lick  enough.  Not  nigh,"  answered  Pete  Jones. 
"  No  lickin',  no  1'arnin',  says  I." 

But  what  was  the  excitement  when  Hannah,  the  bound 
girl  at  old  Jack  Means's,  stood  alone,  opposed  to  the  school- 
master on  the  other  side,  and  seemed  to  be  easily  holding 
her  own.  The  sympathy  of  everybody  went  over  to  her 
side ;  indeed,  even  the  schoolmaster,  as  he  looked  at  her 
fine,  sensitive  face,  flushing  and  shining  with  interest,  and 
saw  upon  her  the  quickening  effect  of  applause  and  sym- 
pathy, began  to  be  smitten  with  a  peculiar  feeling  of  admira- 
tion, and  he  no  longer  craved  a  victory.  And  finally,  when 
the  schoolmaster  went  down  before  the  serried  ranks  of  new 
words  that  the  Squire  had  found  outside  the  spelling-book,  and 
Hannah  spelled  the  word  he  missed,  the  climax  was  dramatic 
enough  to  satisfy  every  one's  sense  of  the  unexpected. 


172      Provincial  Types  in  the  Mississippi  Valley 

One  Saturday  afternoon  the  schoolmaster,  in  following  an 
unknown  path  through  the  woods  from  Squire  Hawkins's, 
came  upon  Rocky  Hollow  and  the  secluded  home  of  old 
John  Pearson,  the  one-legged  basket-maker,  who  in  his  in- 
stinctive kindliness  had  given  a  home  to  Shocky,  the  young 
brother  of  Hannah  the  bound  girl,  whose  mother  had  been 
obliged  to  go  to  the  poorhouse.  Squire  Hawkins's  daughter 
Martha  was  already  there  on  the  schoolmaster's  arrival,  and 
the  old  rheumatic  wife  of  Pearson  impulsively  praised  her 
to  the  schoolmaster  for  her  thoughtfulness  in  coming  to 
see  them  so  often.  Miss  Martha  blushingly  said  she  came 
because  Rocky  Hollow  reminded  her  of  a  place  she  used 
to  know  "at  the  East,"  and  because  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Pear- 
son also  reminded  her  of  people  she  knew  "at  the  East." 
In  fact,  Miss  Hawkins  had  a  characteristic  way  of  beginning 
a  sentence,  "  When  I  was  to  Bosting,"  etc. 

The  old  basket- maker  was  a  pretended  cynic  in  his  phi- 
losophy of  life ;  and  a  favorite  judgment  of  his  on  the 
actions  and  motives  of  mankind  in  general,  including  him- 
self, was  put  in  this  laconic  form,  "  We're  all  selfish  akordin' 
to  my  tell."  When  Shocky  protested  that  the  basket- maker 
wasn't  selfish  when  he  sat  up  every  night  for  two  weeks  with 
Shocky's  sick  father,  the  old  man  insisted  :  "  Yes,  I  was,  too  ! 
Your  father  was  a  miserable  Britisher.  I'd  fit  redcoats  in 
the  war  of  eighteen-twelve,  and  lost  my  leg  by  one  of  'em 
stickin'  his  dog-on'd  bagonet  right  through  it,  that  night  at 
Lundy's  Lane ;  but  my  messmate  killed  him  though,  which 
is  a  satisfaction  to  think  on.  And  I  didn't  like  your  father 
'cause  he  was  a  Britisher.  But  ef  he'd  a  died  right  here  in 
this  free  country,  'thout  nobody  to  give  him  a  drink  of 
water,  blamed  ef  I  wouldn't  a  been  ashamed  to  set  on  the 
platform  at  a  Fourth  of  July  barbecue,  and  to  hold  up  my 


u  The  Hoosier  Schoolmaster"  173 

wooden  leg  fer  to  make  the  boys  cheer  !  That  was  the  self- 
ishest  thing  I  ever  done.  We're  all  selfish  akordin'  to  my 
tell."  His  final  compliment  to  Miss  Hawkins,  their  sym- 
pathetic caller,  was  genuine  though  somewhat  paradoxical, 
"Sometimes  I'd  think  you  was  real  benev'lent  ef  I  didn't 
know  we  was  all  selfish." 

The  schoolmaster  found  one  Sunday  that  his  only  way  of 
hearing  preaching  that  day  at  Bethel  Meetin'-house  was  to 
ride  on  the  "  clay-bank "  mare,  with  Miss  Hawkins  up 
behind.  And  so,  though  it  was  somewhat  against  his  lik- 
ing, he  went  double ;  and  after  a  splashing,  muddy  ride 
he  took  his  place  on  the  men's  side  of  the  "  hewed-log  " 
church  to  listen  to  the  sounding  words  of  Rev.  Mr.  Bosaw, 
of  the  "  Hardshell  Baptist "  school,  sometimes  known  in 
that  region  as  the  "Whisky  Baptists,"  and  the  "Forty- 
gallon  Baptists."  Their  preachers  had  a  habit  of  singing 
their  sermons  out  for  two  or  three  hours  at  a  stretch,  and 
they  were  notorious  for  their  illiteracy,  not  to  say  frequent 
drunkenness  and  viciousness.  Mr.  Eggleston  vouches  for 
the  accuracy  of  the  following  sermon,  although  he  says 
that  it  is  impossible  to  give  a  picture  of  the  preacher's 
rich  red  nose,  his  seesawing  gestures,  his  nasal  resonance, 
his  sniffle,  and  his  melancholy  minor  key  :  "  My  respec- 
tive hearers-ah,  you  see-ah  as  how-ah  as  my  tex'-ah  says 
that  the  ox-ah  knoweth  his  owner-ah,  and-ah  the  ass-ah  his 
master's  crib-ah.  A-h-h  !  Now,  my  respective  hearers-ah, 
they're  a  mighty  sight  of  resemblance-ah  atewxt  men-ah  and 
oxen-ah,  bekase-ah,  you  see,  men-ah  is  mighty  like  oxen-ah. 
Fer  they's  a  tremengious  defference-ah  atwext  defferent 
oxen-ah,  jest  as  thar  is  atwext  defferent  men-ah;  fer  the 
ox  knoweth-ah  his  owner-ah,  and  the  ass-ah  his  master's 
crib-ah.  Now,  my  respective  hearers-ah,  you  all  know-ah 


174      Provincial  Types  in  the  Mississippi  Valley 

that  your  humble  speaker-ah  has  got-ah  jest  the  best  yoke 
of  steers-ah  in  this  township-ah.  They  a'n't  no  sech  steers 
as  them  air  two  of  mine-ah  in  this  whole  kedentry-ah. 
Them  crack  oxen  over  at  Clifty-ah  ha'n't  a  patchin'  to 
mine-ah.  Fer  the  ox  knoweth  his  owner-ah,  and  the 
ass-ah  his  master's  crib-ah. 

"  Now,  my  respective  hearers,  they's  a  right  smart  sight 
of  defference-ah  atwext  them  air  two  oxen-ah,  jest  like  they 
is  atwext  defferent  men-ah.  Fer-ah.  [here  the  speaker 
grew  vehement  in  voice  and  gesticulation,  out  of  all  pro- 
portion to  the  importance  of  the  subject-matter]  fer-ah, 
you  see-ah,  when  I  go  out-ah  in  the  mornin'-ah  to 
yoke-ah  up-ah  them  air  steers-ah,  and  I  says-ah,  'Wo, 
Berry-ah  !  Wo,  Berry-ah  !  Wo  BERRY- AH,'  why  Berry-ah 
jests  stands  stock  still-ah  and  don't  hardly  breathe-ah  while 
I  put  on  the  yoke-ah  and  put  in  the  bow-ah,  and  put 
in  the  key-ah,  fer,  my  brethering-ah  and  sistering-ah,  the 
ox  knoweth  his  owner-ah,  and  the  ass-ah  his  master's  crib-ah. 
Hal-le-lu-ger-ah  ! 

"  But-ah,  my  hearers-ah,  but-ah  when  I  stand  at  t'other 
eend  of  the  yoke-ah,  and  say ;  i  Come,  Buck-ah  !  Come, 
Buck-ah  !  COME,  BUCK-AH  !  COME,  BUCK-AH  I '  why, 
what  do  you  think-ah?  Buck-ah,  that  ornery  ole  Buck-ah, 
'stid  of  comin'  right  along-ah  and  puttin'  his  neck  under-ah, 
acts  jest  like  some  men-ah  what  is  fools-ah.  Buck-ah  jest 
kinder  sorter  stands  off-ah,  and  kinder  sorter  puts  his 
head  down-ah  this  'ere  way-ah,  and  kinder  looks  mad-ah, 
and  says,  '  Boo-oo-oo-OO-ah  ! '  "  As  a  preacher  Rev.  Mr. 
Bosaw  is  in  a  class  with  the  camp-meeting  type  in  "  Huckle- 
berry Finn  "  and  with  Brother  Jake  Tobin  in  "  The  Prophet 
of  the  Great  Smoky  Mountains." 

Unfortunately  for    the    schoolmaster,   Bud    Means,   the 


"The  Hoosier  Schoolmaster"  175 

young  giant,  who  was  deeply  in  love  with  Martha  Hawkins, 
had  watched  with  fiercely  jealous  eye  the  arrival  at  the 
church  of  Ralph  and  Miss  Hawkins  on  the  same  horse; 
and  as  Bud  had  previously  seen  the  schoolmaster  and  Miss 
Hawkins  together  at  the  Squire's  home,  Bud  thought  he 
recognized  in  him  a  deliberate  and  dangerous  rival  for  the 
hand  of  her  who  had  been  "  to  Bosting."  Little  did  Bud 
realize  that  the  heart  of  the  schoolmaster  was  set  on  the 
fair,  pathetic  face  of  Hannah,  the  bound  girl  at  Bud's  own 
home. 

In  the  schoolhouse  one  day  Bud  plainly  told  the  master 
that  the  latter  would  have  to  leave  "  these  'ere  diggins"  or 
get  a  thrashing.  At  the  order  of  Bud,  the  schoolmaster 
took  off  his  coat  preparatory  to  a  "  lickin'  "  ;  and  the  pluck 
of  Ralph  in  the  presence  of  such  burly  and  superior  strength 
as  Bud's  stirred  the  latter's  admiration.  "  Well,  you're  the 
grittiest  feller  I  ever  did  see,  and  ef  you'd  jest  kep'  off  of 
my  ground  I  wouldn't  a  touched  you.  But  I  a'n't  agoin'  to 
be  cut  out  by  no  feller  a  livin'  'thout  thrashin'  him  in  an 
inch  of  his  life.  You  see  I  wanted  to  git  out  of  this  Flat 
Crick  way.  We're  a  low-lived  set  here  in  Flat  Crick.  .  .  . 
And  when  you  come  I  says,  There's  one  as'll  help  me.  And 
what  did  you  do  with  your  book-1'arnin'  and  town  manners 
but  start  right  out  to  git  away  the  gal  that  I'd  picked  out, 
when  I'd  picked  her  out  kase  I  thought,  not  bein'  Flat  Crick 
born  herself,  she  might  help  a  feller  to  do  better  !  Now  I 
won't  let  nobody  cut  me  out  without  givin'  'em  the  best 
thrashin'  it's  in  these  'ere  arms  to  give." 

When  Bud's  mistake  became  known,  and  also  his  sister 
Miranda's  misleading  report  that  her  brother  was  courting 
Hannah,  the  bound  girl,  Bud's  indignation  and  amazement 
knew  no  bounds :  "  Mirandy  !  Thunder !  You  believed 


ij6      Provincial  Types  in  the  Mississippi  Valley 

Mirandy  !  Well !  Now,  looky  here,  Mr.  Hartsook,  ef  you 
was  to  say  that  my  sister  lied  I'd  lick  you  till  yer  hide 
wouldn't  hold  shucks.  But  /  say,  atwixt  you  and  me  and 
the  gate-post,  don't  you  never  believe  nothing  that  Mirandy 
Means  says.  Her  and  marm  has  set  theirselves  like  fools  to 
git  you."  And  then  Bud  and  the  schoolmaster  put  on 
their  coats  and  shook  hands  in  what  proved  to  be  a  very 
loyal  alliance. 

It  was  only  a  few  minutes  before  Bud,  who  had  left 
the  school-house,  reentered  and  remarked  with  much  em- 
barrassment :  "I  don't  know  whether  you're  a  Hardshell  or 
a  Softshell,  or  a  Methodist,  or  a  Campbellite,  or  a  New  Light, 
or  a  United  Brother,  or  a  Millerite,  or  what-not.  But  I 
says,  the  man  what  can  do  the  clean  thing  by  a  ugly  feller 
like  me,  and  stick  to  it,  when  I  was  jest  ready  to  eat  him 
up,  is  a  kind  of  a  man  to  tie  to."  In  fact,  Bud  was  im- 
pressed by  the  schoolmaster's  honest,  heroic,  self-sacrificing 
religious  spirit,  and  wanted  to  turn  over  a  new  leaf.  So 
that  when  he  heard  from  the  schoolmaster's  own  lips  that 
the  man  of  Nazareth  was  "  a  sort  of  a  Flat  Creeker  himself  " 
and  that  one  could  be  a  follower  of  His  without  being  bap- 
tized, Bud  expressed  his  immediate  intention  of  putting  in 
his  "  best  licks  for  Jesus  Christ,"  —  thus  starting  in  the  little 
log  schoolhouse  a  genuine  church  militant.  And  Bud's  "  first 
lick  "  was  against  Pete  Jones,  who  struck  little  Shocky  with 
his  hog-drover's  whip.  Pete  could  only  crawl  away  like  a 
whipped  puppy,  muttering  that  he  felt  "consid'able  shuck 
up  like." 

Bud's  next  "lick"  was  his  effort  to  save  the  one-legged, 
outspoken  old  basket-maker,  John  Pearson,  whose  knowl- 
edge of  a  robbery  in  the  neighborhood,  involving  some 
prominent  citizens  like  Pete  Jones  and  Dr.  Small,  had 


"The  Hoosier  Schoolmaster"  177 

brought  upon  him  the  imminent  danger  of  being  tarred  and 
feathered.  It  took  a  "  council  of  war  "  to  convince  the  old 
soldier  that  it  was  the  part  of  valor  as  well  as  of  discretion 
to  leave  Flat  Creek  without  delay.  "  No,  I  won't  leave. 
You  see  I  jest  won't.  What  would  Gin'ral  Winfield  Scott 
say  ef  he  knew  that  one  of  them  as  fit  at  Lundy's  Lane 
backed  out,  retreated,  run  fer  fear  of  a  passel  of  thieves? 
No,  sir ;  me  and  the  old  flintlock  will  live  and  die  together." 
But,  finally,  seeing  the  futility  of  a  stubborn  delay,  the  old 
basket-maker  was  glad  to  take  his  secret  departure  in  the 
night  on  the  back  of  Bud's  roan  colt,  while  Bud  himself 
trudged  along  by  his  side  six  miles  to  Buckeye  Run  to  bring 
back  the  colt. 

Bud's  next  "  best  lick  "  was  in  his  effort  to  save  little 
Shocky  —  whom  "God  forgot"  —  from  being  bound  out, 
like  his  sister  Hannah.  And  this  was  achieved  by  the  help 
of  the  same  colt  and  the  schoolmaster,  who  rode  at  dawn, 
with  Shocky  in  his  arms,  to  Lewisburg,  and  found  a  refuge 
for  him  there  with  Miss  Nancy  Sawyer,  the  old  maid  who 
was  a  sort  of  benediction  to  the  community.  As  the  school- 
master took  the  feverish  little  boy  in  his  arms,  for  the  long 
ride  to  Lewisburg,  Shocky  looked  up  in  his  face  and  said : 
"  You  see,  Mr.  Hartsook,  I  thought  God  had  forgot.  But 
he  ha'n't." 

Bud  Means's  secret  notification  to  the  schoolmaster  to 
flee  from  the  community,  the  minds  of  which  had  been 
subtly  instigated  against  him ;  Ralph's  finding  Squire  Haw- 
kins in  Clifty,  a  neighboring  village,  and  asking  the  Squire 
to  arrest  and  try  him  there  ;  and  the  public  trial  in  the  large 
schoolhouse  in  Clifty,  all  of  whose  inhabitants,  as  well  as 
those  of  Flat  Creek,  attended,  —  bring  the  narrative  to  the 
various  phases  of  the  strangely  conflicting  testimony  given 


178      Provincial  Types  in  the  Mississippi  Valley 

in  the  trial.  The  testimony  of  Walter  Johnson,  a  medical 
student  in  Dr.  Small's  office,  was  peculiarly  uncertain,  due 
to  the  fact  that  the  weak  and  wavering  Johnson,  who  had 
been  an  eye-witness  of  the  robbery  and  was  sworn  to  secrecy 
by  Dr.  Small,  the  actual  head  of  an  organized  gang  of 
thieves,  —  had  been  taken  by  the  astute  Bud  to  hear  the 
Rev.  Mr.  Soden  (the  scoffers  called  him  "  Brother  Sodom  "). 
"  Brother  Sodom's  "  sulphurous  preaching  had  so  aroused 
the  conscience  of  young  Johnson  that,  on  the  witness  stand, 
despite  the  intimidating  glances  of  Dr.  Small,  he  had  made 
a  full  confession,  exonerating  the  schoolmaster  and  directly 
implicating  the  doctor  and  the  Joneses.  Through  Bud's 
influence,  also,  Hank  Banta,  the  old-time  enemy  of  the 
schoolmaster,  confessed  that  his  own  testimony  had  been 
false  ;  and  even  old  Jack  Means,  the  school  trustee,  who  had 
always  had  a  warm  side  for  the  master,  proposed  three 
cheers  for  him  at  the  conclusion  of  the  trial.  But  Mrs. 
Means  gave  it  as  her  opinion  that  "  Jack  Means  allers  wuz  a 
fool ! " 

Old  Jack  Means  in  his  function  of  school  trustee,  Bud, 
as  a  founder  of  the  church  militant,  and  Rev.  Mr.  Bosaw, 
the  unctuous  "  Hardshell "  preacher ;  the  pathetic  and  poetic 
little  Shocky,  the  pale  and  patient  bound  girl,  Hannah,  and 
the  giggling  "  Mirandy  "  ;  the  one-legged  basket-maker  who 
"  fit "  at  Lundy's  Lane  and  believed  in  the  general  selfishness 
of  mankind ;  the  Squire  whose  eyes  turned  different  ways 
and  who  was  an  authority  on  spelling;  and  the  strenuous 
little  schoolmaster  himself,  —  these  figures  for  a  long  time  to 
come  will  be  associated  in  the  minds  of  the  reading  world 
with  the  crude  and  lawless  conditions  of  pioneer  life  in 
Southern  Indiana. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

"MAIN-TRAVELED  ROADS  "  BY  HAMLIN   GARLAND 

"  Main-Traveled  Roads "  has  a  significant  dedication. 
It  reads :  "  To  my  father  and  mother,  whose  half-century 
pilgrimage  on  the  main-traveled  road  of  life  has  brought 
them  only  toil  and  deprivation,  this  book  of  stories  is  dedi- 
cated by  a  son  to  whom  every  day  brings  a  deepening  sense 
of  his  parents'  silent  heroism."  In  fact,  the  strenuous 
early  life  of  Mr.  Garland  himself,  in  Wisconsin  and  on  the 
prairies  of  Iowa,  gave  him  certain  hard  and  vivid  experi- 
ences that  later  made  him  so  sympathetic  with  the  grim  and 
tedious  lives  of  a  farmer's  family  in  the  great  Northwest. 

A  writer  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  in  speaking  of  the  effect 
produced  upon  him  by  the  book  under  consideration,  said  : 
"The  best  proof  of  the  solid  merit  of  ' Main-Traveled 
Roads '  is  that,  in  spite  of  all,  it  convinces  the  reader,  willy- 
nilly,  of  its  general  fidelity  to  fact,  and  lifts  him  off  his  criti- 
cal feet  by  its  sheer  brute  force.  ...  It  shows  strikingly 
what  may  be  done  by  strong  native  talent,  working  with  the 
help  of  a  single  sound  formula  for  effective  composition; 
for  here  most  emphatically  Mr.  Garland  has  written  of  what 
he  knows.  The  book  is  unique  in  American  literature ; 
passionate,  vivid,  written  with  absolute  certainty  of  touch, 
native  and  virile  as  the  red  man."  And  Mr.  Howells,  also 
bearing  witness  to  the  essential  truthfulness  of  the  book, 
wrote  in  Harper's  Magazine  :  "  These  stories  are  full  of  the 

179 


180      Provincial  Types  in  the  Mississippi  Valley 

bitter  and  burning  dust,  the  foul  and  trampled  slush,  of  the 
common  avenues  of  life,  the  life  of  the  men  who  hopelessly 
and  cheerlessly  make  the  wealth  that  enriches  the  alien  and 
the  idler,  and  impoverishes  the  producer." 

In  the  opening  of  the  first  sketch  in  "Main-Traveled 
Roads,"  called  "A  Branch  Road,"  one  gets  a  fine  sense  of  the 
freedom  and  sweetness  of  that  hour  in  the  country  when  the 
night  is'  losing  its  sway,  —  the  grass  was  crisp  with  frost, 
the  air  was  stimulating  and  resonant,  the  autumn  maples 
were  flaming  amid  the  still  green  oaks,  and  above  the  tim- 
ber belt  in  the  east  rose  swiftly  "  a  vast  dome  of  pale  undaz- 
zling  gold."  "  In  the  windless  September  dawn  a  voice 
went  ringing  clear  and  sweet,  a  man's  voice,  singing  a  cheap 
and  common  air."  Such  is  the  note  of  spontaneous  joy 
breathed  out  by  nature  and  human  nature  in  unison,  —  in 
what  suggestive  contrast  to  the  later  depression  and  grimness 
of  the  story  ! 

The  singing  voice  was  that  of  a  young  man  on  his  way  to 
help  a  neighbor  do  his  "  thrashing,"  a  time  of  the  intensest 
work  for  the  farmer,  who  is  then  getting  into  final  shape  the 
product  of  his  spring  and  summer's  labor.  As  Will  Hannan, 
carrying  his  pitchfork,  came  in  sight  of  his  neighbors,  he 
could  see  the  horses  in  a  circle,  hitched  to  the  ends  of  the 
six  sweeps,  and  the  great  red  and  gold-striped  threshing 
machine  standing  among  the  stacks.  Will  and  his  rival,  Ed 
Kinney,  took  their  places  on  the  highest  stack,  and  the 
voice  of  big  David  McTurg,  the  owner  of  the  thresher,  was 
heard  calling  out  as  the  men  raised  the  long  stacker  into 
position.  "Come,  come,  every  sucker  of  yeh,  git  hold 
o'  something.  All  ready."  And  then,  to  use  the  words  of 
Mr.  Garland  himself  in  describing  this  typical,  strenuous 
phase  of  Western  farm  life  :  "  Boo-oo-oo-oom,  Boo-woo-woo- 


"  Main-Traveled  Roads  "  1 8 1 

oom-oom-ow-owm,  yarr,  yarr  !  The  whirling  cylinder  boomed, 
roared,  and  snarled  as  it  rose  in  speed.  At  last,  when  its 
tone  became  a  rattling  yell,  David  nodded  to  the  pitchers 
and  rasped  his  hands  together.  The  sheaves  began  to  fall 
from  the  stack ;  the  band-cutter,  knife  in  hand,  slashed  the 
bands  in  twain ;  and  the  feeder,  with  easy,  majestic  move- 
ment, gathered  them  under  his  arm  and  rolled  them  out  into 
an  even  belt  of  entering  wheat,  on  which  the  cylinder  tore 
with  its  smothered,  ferocious  snarl." 

It  was  only  the  night  before  that  Agnes  Dingman,  whose 
father  was  having  his  wheat  threshed,  had  given  Will  Han- 
nan  an  assurance  of  her  love  ;  and  so  he  worked  steadily  on 
the  stack  beside  Ed  Kinney  with  a  secure  sense  of  triumph 
that  made  him  perfectly  happy.  But  Agnes's  open  prefer- 
ence for  himself  at  dinner-time,  and  her  pleasant,  smiling 
ways  with  some  of  the  other  men,  in  some  way  irritated  and 
maddened  the  lover  in  his  peculiarly  sensitive  mood ;  and 
later  he  was  almost  plunged  into  a  quarrel  with  one  of  the 
threshers,  because  of  remarks  about  Agnes's  evident  liking 
for  him.  He  worked  savagely  on  during  the  rest  of  the  day, 
resenting,  with  a  sense  of  ownership  in  her,  every  pleasant 
attention  she  received  from  the  other  men.  Even  when  she 
came  out  near  his  stack,  looking  very  pretty  in  her  straw 
hat,  and  seeking  an  explanation  for  his  strange  attitude 
toward  her,  he  worked  fiercely  on,  with  his  hat  pulled  over 
his  eyes,  and  with  barely  a  notice  of  her.  At  the  end  of 
the  day,  when  all  stayed  for  supper  at  the  Dingmans,  Will 
refused  an  invitation  to  wait  and  eat  with  the  rest,  but  turned 
away  hungry  and  tired,  —  "  so  tired  he  stumbled  and  so  un- 
happy he  wept." 

It  was  another  beautiful  dawn,  and  Will  was  busily  wash- 
ing the  mud  from  his  brother's  carriage,  preparatory  to 


1 82      Provincial  Types  in  the  Mississippi  Valley 

taking  his  sweetheart  Agnes  to  the  county  fair,  —  an  arrange- 
ment to  that  effect  having  been  made  with  her  the  Sunday 
before.  He  had  not  seen  her,  however,  since  Monday,  — 
the  day  of  the  threshing,  —  and  it  was  now  Thursday.  He 
sang  at  his  work ;  "  he  had  regained  his  real  self,  and,  hav- 
ing passed  through  a  bitter  period  of  shame,  was  now  joyous 
with  anticipation  of  forgiveness.  He  looked  forward  to  the 
day,  with  its  chances  of  doing  a  thousand  little  things  to 
show  his  regret  and  his  love." 

Will,  in  his  best  suit,  sprang  into  the  carriage,  after  an 
early  breakfast,  and  started  off  with  the  lively  colts  for 
Agnes  Dingman's  home,  where  he  had  arranged  to  meet  her 
at  eight  o'clock.  But  on  the  way,  by  an  unfortunate  acci- 
dent, he  was  delayed  till  ten  o'clock.  He  imagined  his 
sweetheart  as  tearful  and  pouting,  and  as  sitting  by  the  win- 
dow with  her  hat  and  gloves  on,  waiting  for  him  after  the 
others  had  gone.  Alas  for  human  illusions  !  when  the  lover 
drove  up,  no  smiling  or  tearful  face  waited  at  the  window ;  the 
house  was  silent,  and  the  curtains  down.  Something  rose 
chokingly  in  his  throat ;  he  called  "  Agnes,"  and  announced 
that  he  was  "  here  at  last."  There  was  no  response.  Sud- 
denly an  old  man  came  round  the  corner,  grinning  as  he 
came,  and  said,  "She  ain't  here.  She's  gone."  To  Will's 
amazed  inquiry,  "Who'd  she  go  with?"  the  old  man  an- 
swered, with  a  malicious  grin,  "  Ed  Kinney.  I  guess  your 
goose  is  cooked."  And  this  was  the  expected  sweetness  of 
reconciliation  with  Agnes  !  He  lashed  his  horses  into  a 
run ;  his  face  was  white  and  his  teeth  were  set ;  and  when 
once  more  at  home  he  wrote  this  savage,  brutal  letter  to  the 
gentle  girl  that  really  loved  him  :  "  If  you  want  to  go  to  hell 
with  Ed  Kinney,  you  can.  I  won't  say  a  word.  That's 
where  he'll  take  you.  You  won't  see  me  again."  He  knew 


"  Main-Traveled  Roads  "  1 83 

it  would  tear  and  sear  an  innocent,  happy  heart,  but  that 
thought  was  a  wicked  satisfaction  to  him  as  he  rode  away  in 
the  train  to  the  South. 

Seven  years  of  hard  but  successful  life  among  the  cliffs 
and  treeless  swells  of  the  Southwest,  and  Will  Hannan  was 
back  in  his  boyhood  home,  among  the  trees  and  rustling 
cornfields  and  cattle  pastures  of  Southern  Wisconsin.  The 
very  crickets  and  peacefully  feeding  cattle  were  dear  to  him  ; 
and  the  softened  sound  of  the  distant  reaper  seemed  like 
"  the  hum  of  a  bluebottle  fly  buzzing  heedlessly  about  his 
ears."  Retrospective  and  repentant,  he  was  filled  with  a 
sort  of  strange  sadness  and  despair.  As  he  waited  by  the 
roadside  for  the  passing  of  a  drove  of  cattle  he  recognized 
in  the  hard-featured  old  driver  the  father  of  his  early  rival, 
Ed  Kinney.  Will  innocently  inquired  of  the  old  man  the 
whereabouts  of  Will  Hannan.  "  William  ?  Oh  !  he's  a  bad 
aig  —  he  lit  out  f  r  the  West  somewhere.  He  was  a  hard 
boy.  He  stole  a  hatful  o'  my  plums  once.  He  left  home 
kind  o'  sudden.  He  !  he  !  I  s'pose  he  was  purty  well  cut 
up  jest  about  them  days."  The  old  man  chuckled  and  con- 
tinued :  "  Well,  y'  see,  they  was  both  courtin'  Agnes  then, 
an'  my  son  cut  William  out.  Then  William  he  lit  out  f  r 
the  West,  Arizony,  'r  California,  'r  somewhere  out  West. 
Never  been  back  sence." 

Will  walked  on  until  he  came  to-  the  old  home  of  Agnes, 
his  former  sweetheart.  "  The  barn  had  been  moved  away, 
the  garden  plowed  up,  and  the  house,  turned  into  a  gran- 
ary, stood  with  boards  nailed  across  its  dusty,  cobwebbed 
windows.  The  tears  started  into  the  man's  eyes.  ...  In 
the  face  of  this  house  the  seven  years  that  he  had  last  lived 
stretched  away  into  a  wild  waste  of  time.  It  stood  as  a 
symbol  of  his  wasted,  ruined  life.  It  was  personal,  inti- 


184      Provincial  Types  in  the  Mississippi  Valley 

mately  personal,  this  decay  of  her  home."  And  his  mind 
reverted  to  that  last  impression  of  the  Dingman  home  — 
the  roar  of  the  threshing  machine,  the  whistle  of  the  driver, 
the  shouts  of  the  men,  and  the  streaming  lamplight  as  he 
turned  away  from  the  door,  "  tired,  hungry,  sullen  with  rage 
and  jealousy.  Oh,  if  he  had  only  had  the  courage  of  a 
man  !  "  But  his  old  sweetheart — he  must  see  her  just  once 
more. 

The  next  morning  Will  drove  up  to  her  home.  It  had 
been  his  own  home  until  it  passed  from  his  mother's  posses- 
sion into  the  hands  of  old  Kinney.  There  he  had  been 
born,  and  there  his  mother  had  toiled  for  thirty  years.  It 
was  a  strange  meeting  —  this  coming  together  of  old-time 
lovers  in  a  quick  recognition  that  love  was  not  yet  dead. 
Will  explained  his  identity  to  Ed's  old  father  and  mother, 
the  latter  exclaiming  :  "  Dew  tell !  I  want  'o  know  !  Wai,  I 
never  !  An'  you're  my  little  Willy  boy  who  ust  'o  be  in  my 
class  ?  Well !  Well !  W'y,  pa,  ain't  he  growed  tall !  Gr,ew 
handsome  tew.  I  ust  to  think  he  was  a  dretful  humly  boy ; 
but  my  sakes,  that  mustache  —  " 

But  what  a  change  in  the  old  Agnes,  with  the  dimples  and 
the  sunny  hair  !  She  was  now  plainly  a  farmer's  house 
drudge.  "  She  was  worn  and  wasted  incredibly.  The  blue 
of  her  eyes  seemed  dimmed  and  faded  by  weeping,  and  the 
old-time  scarlet  of  her  lips  had  been  washed  away.  The 
sinews  of  her  neck  showed  painfully  when  she  turned  her 
head,  and  her  trembling  hands  were  worn,  discolored,  and 
lumpy  at  the  joints."  As  she  moved  about,  getting  dinner 
at  the  demand  of  the  old  people,  Will  listened  gloomily  to 
the  "  clack  "  of  the  old  man,  and  observed  the  details  of  the 
room.  It  was  a  poor  little  "sitting  room,"  with  furniture 
"  worn  and  shapeless  ;  hardly  a  touch  of  pleasant  color,  save 


"  Main-Traveled  Roads  "  185 

here  and  there  a  little  bit  of  Agnes's  handiwork.  The 
lounge,  covered  with  calico,  was  rickety ;  the  rocking-chair 
matched  it,  and  the  carpet  of  rags  was  patched  and  darned 
with  twine  in  twenty  places.  Everywhere  was  the  influence 
of  the  Kinneys.  The  furniture  looked  like  them,  in  fact." 

Suddenly  old  Mrs.  Kinney's  hawklike  eyes  discovered 
something  unheard-of:  "Well,  I  declare,  if  you  hain't  put 
the  butter  on  in  one  o'  my  blue  chainy  saucers?  Now  you 
know  I  don't  allow  that  saucer  to  be  took  down  by  nobody. 
I  don't  see  what's  got  into  yeh  !  Anybody'd  s'pose  you 
never  see  any  comp'ny  b'fore  —  wouldn't  they,  pa  ?  "  "  Sh'd 
say  th'  would,"  said  pa.  "  Seems  as  if  we  couldn't  keep 
anything  in  this  house  sep'rit  from  the  rest."  Accidentally 
Agnes  dropped  a  plate,  the  crash  of  which  started  Granny 
Kinney  once  more.  "Good  land  o'  Goshen  !  "  she  screamed. 
"  If  you  ain't  the  worst  I  ever  see.  I'll  bet  that's  my  grape- 
vine plate.  If  it  is —  Well,  of  all  the  mercies,  it  ain't.  But 
it  might  'a'  ben.  I  never  see  your  beat  —  never  !  that's  the 
third  plate  since  I  came  to  live  here."  In  the  midst  of  all 
this  exasperating  and  characteristic  criticism,  there  sounded 
unexpectedly  the  brutal  voice  of  Agnes's  husband,  Ed,  who 
had  come  home  for  his  Sunday  dinner  after  a  horse  trade  at 
a  neighbor's  :  "What  the  devul  is  all  this  row  about?  Agg, 
can't  you  get  along  without  stirring  up  the  old  folks  every 
time  I'm  out  o'  the  house?"  Ed,  clad  in  greasy  overalls 
and  a  hickory  shirt,  lounged  in  with  insolent  swagger,  and 
greeted  his  old-time  rival  with  easy  familiarity.  Then  he 
led  the  way  to  dinner.  "Well,  let's  go  out  and  set  up. 
Come,  Dad,  sling  away  that  Bible  and  come  to  grub. 
Mother,  what  the  devul  are  you  snifflin'  at?  Say,  now, 
look  here  !  if  I  hear  any  more  about  this  row,  I'll  simply 
let  you  walk  down  to  meetin'." 


1 86      Provincial  Types  in  the  Mississippi  Valley 

The  dinner  conversation  was  of  the  same  humiliating  and 
fault-finding  tone.  When  Ed  discovered  that  it  was  only 
a  white  dish  that  his  wife  had  broken,  he  cut  short  his 
mother's  whining  criticism  of  her  daughter-in-law  with  a 
somewhat  vigorous  protest :  "  Well,  now,  I'll  git  into  that 
dog-gasted  cubberd  some  day  an'  break  the  whole  eternal 
outfit.  I  ain't  goin'  to  have  this  damned  jawin'  goin'  on." 
After  dinner,  as  Ed  drove  away  with  his  old  father  and 
mother  for  the  "meetin',"  the  latter  screamed  at  her 
daughter-in-law :  "  Don't  you  leave  them  dishes  f'r  me  to 
wash.  An'  if  we  don't  git  home  by  five,  them  caaves  orter 
be  fed." 

Out  of  this  heart-sickening  round  of  drudgery  and  abuse, 
Will  Hannan  persuaded  Agnes  to  go  with  him,  —  leaving  a 
loveless  husband  and  a  dreary  house,  but  taking  with  her 
her  little  child.  Through  the  open  door  he  pointed  to  the 
sunlight  shining  on  a  field  of  wheat :  "  That's  where  I'll  take 
you,  —  out  into  the  sunshine,"  the  sunshine  of  renewed 
hope  and  appreciative  love.  And  forgetful  of  the  mistaken 
past,  of  social  custom,  and  of  public  prejudice,  they  went 
forth  together,  into  a  wider  world  of  new  life. 

In  the  story  called  "  Up  the  Coolly  "  has  been  drawn  a 
pitiless  picture  of  a  risen  man,  who  for  ten  years  has  been 
practically  indifferent  to  the  conditions  surrounding  his 
mother  and  brother  out  upon  a  Western  farm ;  and  the  suc- 
cessful man  on  his  return  to  his  old  home  is  a  good  deal 
irritated  and  chagrined  by  the  attitude  of  his  brother,  who 
in  the  meantime  has  been  struggling  in  a  grinding  poverty 
and  a  hopeless  condition  of  debt.  The  welcome  given  by 
the  Western  brother  is  grudging  and  surly  —  he  has  had  to 
bear  the  long  heat  and  heavy  burden  of  the  day,  until  he  is 
past  the  best  possibilities  of  his  life,  which  has  settled  into  a 


"  Main-Traveled  Roads  "  1 87 

sullen  despair.  "  The  Return  of  the  Private  "  presents  that 
truly  pathetic  side  of  the  Civil  War  —  so  often  unconsidered 
amid  the  reverberations  of  successful  battles  —  in  which  the 
poor  and  unknown  soldier  returns  to  wring  a  hard  sub- 
sistence from  the  furrows  he  abandoned  for  his  country's 
good;  while  " Under  the  Lion's  Paw"  is  the  depressing 
story  of  a  farm  mortgage  and  the  crushing  injustice  of  com- 
pelling a  poor  renter  to  pay  for  his  own  improvements. 

What  the  poor  man,  unknown  and  broken  in  health,  re- 
turned to  at  the  close  of  the  Civil  War,  is  grimly  and 
pathetically  portrayed  in  the  "  Return  of  a  Private,"  whose 
opening  picture  is  that  of  a  group  of  veterans  expectantly 
nearing  their  home  county  of  La  Crosse,  in  Wisconsin.  On 
the  train  from  New  Orleans  they  had  relieved  the  tedium  of 
the  long  journey  by  jests  and  raillery  and  elaborate  discus- 
sion of  their  future  plans,  now  that  peace  was  come ;  and  at 
their  entrance  on  Wisconsin  territory,  and  again  at  Madison, 
their  enthusiasm  took  the  form  of  a  cheer.  But  as  they 
neared  La  Crosse,  the  four  or  five  remaining  soldiers  grew 
thoughtful  and  silent.  They  were  gaunt  and  brown,  and  one 
was  pale  with  the  effects  of  fever  and  ague  still  upon  him. 
One  carried  a  scar,  another  was  lame,  and  all  had  the  pre- 
ternatural brightness  of  eye  that  goes  with  emaciation. 

In  suggestive  contrast  to  their  setting  out,  their  home- 
coming was  lacking  in  bands  of  music  and  the  waving  of 
ladies'  handkerchiefs  —  the  enthusiasm  of  a  spectacle  was 
gone;  and  not  even  the  loafers  at  the  depots  where  the 
freight  train  with  its  caboose  stopped  gave  any  heed  to  this 
grimy,  dusty  contingent  in  blue,  now  become  so  familiar. 
Being  a  freight  train,  it  naturally  was  behind  time,  and  it  was 
two  o'clock  in  the  morning  before  the  travel-worn  soldiers 
heard  the  engine  whistle  "  down  brakes  "  for  La  Crosse. 


1 88      Provincial  Types  in  the  Mississippi  Valley 

Here  they  were,  in  the  dead  of  night,  on  the  station  plat- 
form —  poor  farmers  whose  homes  were  several  miles  out  in 
the  districts  adjoining  the  town.  The  man  who  showed 
signs  of  fever  and  ague,  Private  Smith,  remarked  economi- 
cally :  "  We've  got  to  stay  somewhere  till  mornin'.  Now,  I 
ain't  got  no  two  dollars  to  waste  on  a  hotel.  I've  got  a  wife 
and  children,  so  I'm  goin'  to  roost  on  a  bench  and  take  the 
cost  of  a  bed  out  of  my  hide."  "  Same  here,"  said  another 
of  the  group.  "  Hide  '11  grow  on  again,  dollars  come  hard. 
It's  goin'  to  be  mighty  hot  skirmishin'  to  find  a  dollar  these 
days."  A  third  sarcastically  inquired,  "  Don't  think  they'll 
be  a  deputation  of  citizens  waitin'  to  'scort  us  to  a  hotel, 
eh?"  One  of  the  younger  men  was  so  desperately  ex- 
travagant as  to  think  it  necessary  to  go  to  a  hotel.  "  I'm 
goin'  to  a  hotel,  ef  I  don't  never  lay  up  a  cent."  On 
Private  Smith's  observation  that  that  would  hardly  do  for  one 
who  had  a  wife  and  three  "  young  uns  "  dependent  on  him, 
the  younger  man  cheerfully  exclaimed,  "  Which  I  ain't, 
thank  the  Lord  !  and  don't  intend  havin'  while  the  court 
knows  itself." 

The  chilly  and  deserted  waiting-room  at  the  station, 
lighted  by  flaring  oil  lamps,  made  a  forlorn  and  uncomfort- 
able resting-place  for  the  old  soldiers ;  but  in  the  midst  of 
their  hard  economy  a  characteristic  thoughtfulness  shone 
out.  By  robbing  themselves,  the  other  soldiers  somewhat 
softened  with  their  blankets  the  bench  on  which  Private 
Smith,  the  sick  man,  attempted  to  sleep.  The  two  men, 
sitting  with  bowed  heads  in  the  chilly  night  air,  grew  stiff 
with  cold  and  weariness,  and  now  and  then  rose  and  walked 
about  to  relieve  their  uncomfortable  situation.  Private 
Smith,  lying  stretched  on  his  hard  and  narrow  bench,  found 
it  difficult  to  sleep,  and  his  mind  went  wandering  out  to  his 


"  Main-Traveled  Roads  "  189 

half-cleared  farm,  with  its  insatiable  mortgage  ready  to  swal- 
low half  his  earnings.  And  here  he  was,  —  after  three  years 
of  his  life  had  been  given  to  his  country  on  a  mere  pittance 
of  pay,  —  broken  in  body  and  despondent  in  heart,  com- 
pelled to  look  the  grim  situation  in  the  face.  Toward  dawn 
he  fell  asleep,  his  head  resting  on  his  knapsack,  his  thin  face 
turned  toward  the  ceiling,  his  hands  clasped  over  his  breast ; 
and  the  unconscious  figure  was  touched  with  an  indefinable 
effect  of  mute  and  pathetic  weakness. 

In  strange  contrast  to  the  ugliness  of  the  station  and  the 
unkempt  appearance  of  the  weary-looking  men  was  the 
beauty  and  the  sweetness  of  the  dawn.  "  Morning  dawned 
at  last,  slowly,  with  a  pale  yellow  dome  of  light  rising  silently 
above  the  bluffs,  which  stand  like  some  huge  storm-devas- 
tated castle,  just  east  of  the  city.  Out  to  the  left  the  great 
river  swept  on  its  massive  yet  silent  way  to  the  south.  Blue- 
jays  called  across  the  water  from  hillside  to  hillside  through 
the  clear,  beautiful  air,  and  hawks  began  to  skim  the  tops 
of  the  hills."  The  older  men  had  gone  out,  taking  great 
care  not  to  waken  their  sick  comrade ;  and  when  he  was 
finally  roused  by  the  switching  of  an  engine,  he  folded  up 
his  blankets  and  went  out  to  find  his  companions. 

They  stood  silently  gazing  at  the  familiar  river  and  the 
hills.  "  Looks  natcher'l,  don't  it?  "  they  said  to  him,  as  he 
came  out.  "That's  what  it  does.  An'  it  looks  good. 
D'yeh  see  that  peak?  "  He  pointed  to  a  beautiful,  symmet- 
rical peak  that  seemed  to  overtop  the  rest.  "  It  was 
touched  by  the  morning  sun  and  it  glowed  like  a  beacon, 
and  a  light  scarf  of  gray  morning  fog  was  rolling  up  its 
shadowed  side."  Private  Smith  added  that  just  beyond  the 
peak  lay  his  own  farm,  and  that  if  he  could  only  "  ketch  a 
ride  "  he  would  be  home  by  dinner  time.  But  one  of  his 


190      Provincial  Types  in  the  Mississippi  Valley 

companions  suggested  that  it  was  breakfast,  rather  than 
dinner,  time  he  was  thinking  of;  whereupon  Private  Smith 
resignedly  remarked,  "  I  guess  it's  one  more  meal  o'  hard- 
tack fr  me."  At  a  restaurant  they  got  some  coffee  to 
"  wash  down  "  their  army  ration,  and  Smith,  holding  up  a 
piece  of  hardtack  by  the  corner,  commented  prophetically, 
"Time'll  come,  when  this'll  be  a  curiosity." 

"  I  hope  to  God  it  will !  I  bet  I've  chawed  hardtack 
enough  to  shingle  every  house  in  the  coolly.  .  .  .  I've  took 
it  dry,  soaked,  and  mashed.  I've  had  it  wormy,  musty, 
sour,  and  blue-moldy.  I've  had  it  in  little  bits  and  big 
bits ;  'fore  coffee  an'  after  coffee.  I'm  ready  f  r  a  change. 
I'd  like  t'  git  holt  jest  about  now  o'  some  of  the  hot  biscuits 
my  wife  c'n  make  when  she  lays  herself  out  f 'r  company." 
It  was  remarked  somewhat  sarcastically  that  if  the  speaker 
"  set  there  gabblin'  "  any  longer,  he  would  never  see  his 
wife.  With  characteristic  American  humor  under  difficulties, 
Private  Smith  invited  them  to  drink,  —  but  it  wasn't  whisky. 
"  Wait  a  moment,  boys ;  less  take  suthin'.  It's  on  me." 
He  led  the  way  to  a  rusty  tin  dipper  hanging  by  the  side  of 
a  wooden  water-pail,  and  with  a  humorous  grin  they  all 
drank.  Then  shouldering  their  blankets  and  muskets  they 
started  out  on  their  last  march,  —  the  march  to  the  home 
farms. 

Along  the  turnpike  and  up  the  winding  river  road  they 
kept  together.  "The  river  was  very  lovely,  curving  down 
along  its  sandy  beds,  pausing  now  and  then  under  broad 
basswood  trees,  or  running  in  dark,  swift,  silent  currents 
under  tangles  of  wild  grapevines,  and  drooping  alders,  and 
haw  trees."  At  one  of  these  beautiful  spots  along  the  river 
bank  the  three  veterans  sat  down  to  rest,  largely  "  on  Smith's 
account."  "  I  tell  yeh,  boys,  this  knocks  the  swamps  of 


"  Main-Traveled  Roads  "  191 

Loueesiana  into  kingdom  come."  And  the  reply  came  : 
"  You  bet.  All  they  c'n  raise  down  there  is  snakes,  niggers, 
and  p'rticler  hell."  "  An'  fightin'  men,"  suggested  the  older 
man.  "  An'  fightin'  men.  If  I  had  a  good  hook  an'  line  I'd 
sneak  a  pick'rel  out  o'  that  pond.  Say,  remember  that  time 
I  shot  that  alligator — ."  "I  guess  we'd  better  be  crawlin' 
along,"  interrupted  Smith,  rising  and  shouldering  his  knap- 
sack with  an  effort  that  he  tried  to  conceal.  With  a  prac- 
tical sympathy  born  of  long  comradeship,  one  of  his 
companions  suggested,  "Say,  Smith,  lemme  give  you  a 
lift  on  that."  "I  guess  I  c'n  manage,"  said  Smith,  un- 
willing to  seem  a  burden.  "  Course.  But,  yo'  see,  I  may 
not  have  a  chance  right  off  to  pay  yeh  back  for  the  times 
you've  carried  my  gun  and  hull  caboodle.  Say,  now,  gimme 
that  gun,  anyway."  And  Smith,  rather  reluctantly,  yielded 
it  up  to  his  insistent  companion. 

As  they  plodded  doggedly  along  through  the  increasing 
heat  of  the  sun,  it  seemed  strange  to  Smith  that  no  teams 
were  passing ;  and  when  a  comrade  recalled  that  it  was 
Sunday  morning,  Smith  exultingly  thought  of  how  he  would 
be  home  in  time  for  Sunday  dinner.  "  Well,"  said  old  Jim 
Cranby,  with  a  relish  in  his  voice,  "  Well,  I'll  git  home  jest 
about  six  o'clock,  jest  about  when  the  boys  are  milkin'  the 
cows.  I'll  step  into  the  barn  an'  then  I'll  say :  '  Heah  / 
why  ain't  this  milkin'  done  before  this  time  o'  day?'  An' 
then  won't  they  yell !  " 

And  then  Private  Smith  pictured  his  home-coming.  u  I'll 
jest  go  up  the  path.  Old  Rover'll  come  down  the  road  to 
meet  me.  He  won't  bark ;  he'll  know  me,  an'  he'll  come 
down  waggin'  his  tail  an'  showin'  his  teeth.  That's  his  way 
of  laughin'.  An'  so  I'll  walk  up  to  the  kitchen  door,  an' 
I'll  say,  *  Dinner  f 'r  a  hungry  man  ! '  An'  then  she'll  jump 


192      Provincial  Types  in  the  Mississippi  Valley 

up,  an' — ."  But  his  voice  choked.  And  Saunders,  the 
third  man,  hardly  spoke  as  he  walked  silently  behind  the 
others ;  for  the  first  year  of  his  service  he  had  lost  his  wife, 
who  died  of  pneumonia  due  to  exposure  in  the  autumn 
rains,  when  she  worked  in  the  fields  in  place  of  her  husband. 

At  last  they  came  to  the  parting  of  the  ways,  and  as  they 
grounded  their  muskets  Smith  remarked :  "  Well,  boys, 
here's  where  we  shake  hands.  We've  marched  together  a 
good  many  miles,  an'  now  I  s'pose  we're  done.  I  hope 
I'll  see  yeh  once  in  a  while,  boys,  to  talk  over  old  times." 
"  Of  course,"  said  Saunders,  with  a  quaver  in  his  voice,  "  it 
ain't  exactly  like  dyin'."  And  they  all  found  it  hard  to  look 
at  one  another.  Cranby  and  Saunders  expressed  their  anxi- 
ety about  Smith's  further  journey  alone,  and  offered  to  go 
with  him  ;  but  he  characteristically  made  light  of  it,  rather 
cheerfully  exclaiming :  "  Oh,  I'm  all  right !  Don't  worry 
about  me.  Every  step  takes  me  nearer  home,  yeh  see. 
Well,  good-by,  boys."  They  shook  hands,  with  "  good- 
by"  and  "good  luck";  and  just  before  his  two  comrades 
passed  out  of  sight  he  waved  his  cap  to  them,  and  they  to 
him,  and  all  shouted. 

On  his  lonely  and  toilsome  journey  his  mind  was  filled 
with  sad  memories  of  his  dead  "  chum,"  Billy  Tripp,  whom 
a  wailing  "  minie  "  ball  had  struck  through  the  heart.  He 
fell  face  forward  in  the  dirt  of  the  plowed  field  they  were 
marching  across;  and  now  Private  Smith  must  break  the 
news  to  Billy's  mother  and  sweetheart.  Yet  anticipations 
of  home  gradually  conquered  the  shadows  of  retrospect ; 
the  fields  and  houses  grew  familiar;  now  and  then  he  was 
greeted  by  people  who  recognized  him  from  their  doorways, 
and  once  he  accepted  a  drink  of  milk  at  a  neighbor's  well- 
side.  He  labored  on  through  the  burning  sun,  up  the  slope, 


"  Main-Traveled  Roads  " 


193 


occasionally  stopping  to  rest.  "  He  crawled  along  like  some 
minute,  wingless  variety  of  fly."  When  he  reached  the 
summit  of  the  ridge  he  tried  some  of  the  same  old  hard- 
tack, this  time  relieved  by  the  juice  of  wild  berries ;  and  as 
he  sat  there  resting  he  could  at  last  look  down  into  his  own 
home  coolly. 

Here  was  the  typical  figure  of  the  war-worn  man,  who 
represented  in  his  experience  how  many  thousands,  return- 
ing from  blood  and  suffering  only  to  be  plunged  into  the 
almost  harder  fate  of  a  strenuous  battle  against  poverty  and 
loss.  To  use  Mr.  Garland's  words  in  describing  this  lonely 
figure  :  "  His  wide,  round  gray  eyes  gazed  down  into  the 
beautiful  valley,  seeing  and  not  seeing  the  splendid  cloud- 
shadows  sweeping  over  the  western  hills  and  across  the 
green  and  yellow  wheat  far  below.  His  head  drooped  for- 
ward on  his  palm,  his  shoulders  took  on  a  tired  stoop,  his 
cheek-bones  showed  painfully.  An  observer  might  have 
said,  '  He  is  looking  down  on  his  own  grave.'  " 

At  the  Smith  farm  on  that  Sunday  morning  Mrs.  Smith 
was  alone  with  her  three  children.  Her  farm,  rented  to  a 
neighbor,  lay  at  the  head  of  a  coolly,  or  narrow  gully,  on 
either  side  of  which  rose  the  great  hills  left  standing  by  the 
plowshare  of  the  floods.  Wakened  from  dreams  of  her 
absent  husband  by  the  noises  of  the  chickens,  she  went  out 
into  the  yard,  the  fowls  clustering  about  her  as  she  went ; 
"  a  cow  called  in  a  deep,  musical  bass,  and  a  calf  answered 
from  a  little  pen  near  by,  and  a  pig  scurried  guiltily  out  of 
the  cabbages."  Seeing  the  effects  of  neglect  all  about  her,— 
the  straying  pig,  the  tangled  grass  in  the  garden,  the  broken 
fence  which  she  had  mended  again  and  again,  —  the  little 
woman  sat  down  and  cried. 

It  was  only  a  few  years  before  that  they  had  bought  the 


194      Provincial  Types  in  the  Mississippi  Valley 

farm,  paying  for  it  in  part  and  mortgaging  the  rest ;  and  her 
husband  had  worked  "  nights  and  Sundays "  to  clear  the 
farm  of  its  brush  and  its  insatiable  mortgage.  Suddenly 
came  the  call  of  the  country  for  help,  and  Edward  Smith 
"  threw  down  his  scythe  and  grub  ax,  turned  his  cattle 
loose,  and  became  a  blue-coated  cog  in  a  vast  machine  for 
killing  men  and  not  thistles."  And  the  little  wife  left  be- 
hind had  had  her  special  burden  and  sorrow  through  the 
three  years  of  her  husband's  service.  Two  brothers  had 
been  killed ;  the  renter  in  whose  hands  her  husband  had  left 
the  farm  had  proved  a  villain ;  one  year  the  farm  had  had 
no  crops,  and  now  the  overripe  grain  was  waiting  till  the 
new  renter  had  cared  for  his  own  crop. 

Six  weeks  before  a  letter  had  come,  telling  of  her  hus- 
band's discharge  in  the  near  future  ;  the  papers  had  brought 
news  that  the  army  was  disbanding :  and  from  day  to  day 
blue-coated  survivors  were  returning  to  the  county,  —  but 
her  hero  was  not  among  them.  Each  week  she  had  told  the 
children  he  was  coming,  and  she  had  watched  the  road  so 
long  for  his  approach  that  now  her  eyes  unconsciously  wan- 
dered down  the  coolly  road  from  wherever  she  stood.  This 
morning  Mrs.  Smith's  disappointment  and  loneliness  became 
intolerable;  so  that,  as  some  measure  of  relief,  she  dressed 
the  little  folks  in  their  best  calico  dresses  and  home-made 
jackets,  and  set  off  down  the  coolly  for  the  home  of  her 
neighbor,  "  Widder  "  Gray,  who  was  the  "  visible  incarnation 
of  hospitality  and  optimistic  poverty." 

The  open-hearted,  smiling  widow  came  down  the  path  to 
meet  Mrs.  Smith  and  her  children,  exclaiming  as  she  came, 
"  Oh,  you  little  dears  !  come  right  to  your  granny.  Gimme 
a  kiss  !  Come  right  in,  Mis'  Smith.  How  are  yeh,  anyway? 
Nice  mornin',  ain't  it  ?  Come  in  an'  set  down.  Everything's 


"  Main-Traveled  Roads  s>  195 

in  a  clutter,  but  that  won't  scare  you  any."  And  she  led  the 
way  into  the  "  best  room," —  a  sunny,  square  one,  —  its  floor 
covered  with  a  faded  and  patched  rag  carpet  and  its  walls 
with  a  white-and-green-striped  paper ;  while  here  and  there 
"  faded  effigies  of  dead  members  of  the  family  hung  in  vari- 
ously sized  oval  walnut  frames." 

It  was  a  noisy,  breezy,  hospitable  home  that  Mrs.  Smith 
and  her  children  had  come  to  visit,  and  its  enlivening  influ- 
ence was  irresistible.  There  was  laughter  and  singing,  and 
Mrs.  Smith,  in  the  midst  of  it,  forgot  her  anxiety  and  laughed 
and  smiled  herself.  Toward  noon  the  widow's  eldest  son 
arrived,  with  all  his  family,  from  Sand  Lake  Coolly,  and  the 
widow  began  giving  orders.  "  Well,  go  put  out  your  team, 
an'  go'n  bring  me  in  some  taters;  an',  Sim,  you  go  see  if 
you  c'n  find  some  corn.  Sadie,  you  put  on  the  water  to  bile. 
Come,  now,  hustle  yer  boots,  all  o'  yeh.  If  I  feed  this  yer 
crowd,  we've  got  to  have  some  raw  materials.  If  y'  think 
I'm  goin'  to  feed  yeh  on  pie,  you're  jest  mightily  mistaken." 

The  children  went  off  into  the  fields,  the  girls  made  some 
of  the  preparations  for  dinner  in  the  kitchen,  and  then  re- 
tired to  change  their  dresses  and  "  fix  up,"  innocently  re- 
marking as  they  went  that  "  somebody  might  come."  In 
pretended  dismay  the  breezy  and  knowing  mother  exclaimed  : 
"  Land  sakes,  I  hope  not !  I  don't  know  where  in  time-  I'd 
set  'em,  'less  they'd  eat  at  the  second  table."  Out  on  the 
grass  before  the  house  the  widow's  two  older  boys,  who  had 
served  their  time  in  the  army,  were  whittling  and  talking 
about  the  war,  the  crops,  and  the  buying  of  a  threshing 
machine;  while  the  older  girls  and  Mrs.  Smith  helped  in 
enlarging  the  dinner  table,  putting  on  the  dishes,  and  swell- 
ing the  sum  total  of  good-natured  but  rather  incoherent 
conversation. 


196      Provincial  Types  in  the  Mississippi  Valley 

Finally,  the  widow  had  them  all  for  audience  in  her  dis- 
sertation on  girls  in  love,  and  their  uselessness.  "  Girls  in 
love  ain't  no  use  in  the  whole  blessed  week,"  she  said. 
"Sundays  they're  a-lookin'  down  the  road,  expectin'  he'll 
come.  Sunday  afternoons  they  can't  think  o'  nothin'  else 
'cause  he's  here.  Monday  mornin's  they're  sleepy  and  kind 
o'  dreamy  and  slimpsy,  and  good  fr  nothin'  on  Tuesday 
and  Wednesday.  Thursday  they  git  absent-minded,  an' 
begin  to  look  off  toward  Sunday  agin,  an'  mope  aroun'  an' 
let  the  dish  water  git  cold,  right  under  their  noses.  Friday 
they  break  dishes,  an'  go  off  in  the  best  room  an'  snivel 
an'  look  out  o'  the  winder.  Saturdays  they  have  queer 
spurts  o'  workin'  like  all  p'ssessed,  an'  spurts  o'  frizzin'  their 
hair.  An'  Sunday  they  begin  it  all  over  agin."  Whereat 
the  girls  giggled  and  blushed,  and  Mrs.  Smith  remarked 
that  she  ought  not  to  stay  to  dinner  in  view  of  prospective 
guests.  "  Now  you  set  right  down  !  "  said  Mrs.  Gray,  in- 
sistently. "  If  any  of  them  girls'  beaus  comes,  they'll  have 
to  take  what's  left,  that's  all.  They  ain't  s'posed  to  have 
much  appetite,  nohow.  No,  you're  goin'  to  stay  if  they 
starve,  an'  they  ain't  no  danger  o'  that." 

At  one  o'clock  one  of  the  girls  took  down  a  conch-shell 
from  a  nail  and  blew  a  long,  free  blast  that  brought  the 
children  from  "  the  forest  of  corn,"  from  the  creek,  the 
barn-loft,  and  the  garden.  "  They  come  to  their  feed  fr 
all  the  world  jest  like  the  pigs  when  y'  holler  '  poo-ee  ! ' 
See  'em  scoot ! "  said  Mrs.  Gray,  aglow  with  the  sight. 
The  men  "  soused  "  their  faces  in  the  cold,  hard  water  of 
the  horse-trough ;  and  in  a  few  moments  the  groaning 
table,  piled  with  boiled  potatoes,  boiled  corn  on  the  cob, 
squash  and  pumpkin  pies,  and  hot  biscuit  and  honey,  was 
surrounded  with  a  merry  crowd  of  ardent  eaters,  a  row  of 


cc  Main-Traveled  Roads"  197 

hungry-eyed  youngsters  in  the  kitchen  looking  on  and  wait- 
ing their  impatient  turn. 

The  widow  informed  the  strenuous  circle  of  diners  that 
she  couldn't  afford  to  give  the  "young  uns  "  tea,  as  she  was 
reserving  it  for  the  "women-folks,  and  'specially  f'r  Mis' 
Smith  an'  Bill's  wife.  We're  a-goin'  to  tell  fortunes  by  it." 
One  by  one  the  men  became  satisfied  and  withdrew,  and 
one  by  one  the  eager-eyed  children  took  their  places,  and 
by  two  o'clock  the  women  were  left  to  themselves  around 
the  "  debris-covered  "  table,  and  free  to  sip  their  tea  and 
settle  their  fortunes.  As  they  got  well  down  to  the  grounds 
in  the  cup,  they  shook  them  with  a  circular  motion  in  the 
hand,  and  then  turned  them  bottom-side  up  quickly  in  the 
saucer ;  then  twirled  them  three  or  four  times  one  way,  and 
three  or  four  times  the  other,  during  a  breathless  pause. 
Then  Mrs.  Gray  lifted  the  cup,  and  gazing  into  it  with  pro- 
found gravity,  pronounced  the  impending  fate. 

At  last  came  Mrs.  Smith's  turn,  and  she  trembled  with 
excitement  as  Mrs.  Gray  composed  her  naturally  jovial  face 
into  an  appropriate  solemnity  of  expression.  "  Somebody's 
comin'  to  you"  said  the  prophetess,  after  a  long  pause. 
"He's  got  a  musket  on  his  back.  He's  a  soldier.  He's 
almost  here.  See?"  She  pointed  to  two  little  tea  stems 
that  formed  a  faint  resemblance  to  a  man  with  a  musket  on 
his  back,  and  he  had  climbed  nearly  to  the  edge  of  the  cup. 
Mrs.  Smith  was  pale  with  suppressed  excitement,  and  the 
cup  shook  in  her  hand  as  she  gazed  into  it.  Suddenly  Mrs. 
Gray  cried  out :  "  It's  Ed.  He's  on  the  way  home.  Heavens 
an'  earth  !  There  he  is  now  ! "  She  waved  her  hand  in 
the  direction  of  the  road,  and  there,  in  very  truth,  was  a 
man  in  blue  with  a  musket  on  his  back,  toiling  slowly  up 
the  hill,  his  bent  head  half  hidden  by  his  knapsack.  So 


198      Provincial  Types  in  the  Mississippi  Valley 

toilsome  was  his  step  that  walking  seemed  indeed  "  a  pro- 
cess of  falling  " ;  yet  so  eager  was  he  to  get  home  that  he 
would  not  stop,  nor  look  aside,  but  "  plodded  on  amid  the 
cries  of  the  locusts,  the  welcome  of  the  crickets,  and  the 
rustle  of  the  yellow  wheat.  Getting  back  to  God's  country, 
and  his  wife  and  babies  ! " 

The  little  wife,  laughing,  crying,  and  calling  to  him  and 
the  children  at  the  same  time,  snatched  her  hat  and  ran  out 
into  the  yard ;  but  by  the  time  the  children  had  been  found 
the  soldier  had  disappeared  over  the  hilltop,  beyond  the 
reach  of  her  voice.  Yet  there  was  the  doubt  that  it  might 
not  be  her  husband,  after  all,  for  the  man  refused  to  turn 
his  head  at  their  shouts ;  and  if  it  had  been  Edward  Smith 
he  would  hardly  have  passed  his  old  neighbor's  without  stop- 
ping to  rest.  Wavering  between  hope  and  doubt,  the  little 
woman  hurried  up  the  coolly  as  fast  as  she  could  push  the 
baby-wagon,  the  blue-coated  figure  moving  steadily  on 
ahead. 

When  the  panting  little  group  came  in  sight  of  the  gate, 
they  saw  the  figure  in  army  blue  leaning  upon  the  rail  fence, 
his  chin  resting  on  his  palms  and  his  eyes  gazing  at  the 
empty  house,  while  at  his  feet  in  the  grass  lay  his  knapsack, 
canteen,  and  blankets.  He  stood  lost  in  a  dream,  and  his 
hungry  eyes  seemed  fairly  to  devour  the  scene,  —  the  rough 
lawn,  the  little  unpainted  house,  the  field  of  yellow  wheat 
behind  it,  and  over  it  all  the  level  light  of  the  westering  sun. 
Here  was  a  haunt  of  old-time  peace  that  the  eyes  of  his 
imagination  had  often  seen  in  the  last  three  struggling  years. 
"  O  God  !  how  far  removed  from  all  camps,  hospitals,  battle 
lines  !  A  little  cabin  in  a  Wisconsin  coolly,  but  it  was  majes- 
tic in  its  peace." 

Trembling  and  weak  with  emotion,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the 


"  Main-Traveled  Roads  "  199 

silent  figure,  Mrs.  Smith  hurried  noiselessly  through  the  dust 
and  grass,  her  oldest  boy  a  little  in  advance.  "  Who  are 
you,  sir  ?  "  the  little  woman  started  to  ask ;  but  suddenly  the 
pale  face  of  the  private  turned  full  upon  her  and  the  cry  of 
"  Emma  !  "  broke  from  his  lips.  "  Edward  !  "  was  all  she 
could  answer,  as  she  sobbingly  kissed  this  strange  and  bearded 
man,  the  daughter  Mary  sobbing  in  sympathy  with  her 
mother.  Illness  had  left  the  soldier  partly  deaf,  and  this 
increased  the  strangeness  of  his  manner.  Even  after  the 
girl  had  kissed  her  father,  the  youngest  child  refused  to 
come  to  him,  and  backing  away  under  the  fence  stood  peer- 
ing at  him  critically.  The  father  called  "  my  little  man  "  in 
vain.  Alas  !  between  him  and  his  baby  war  had  come,  and 
left  him  only  a  strange  man  with  big  eyes,  a  soldier  with 
mother  hanging  to  his  arm  and  talking  to  him  in  an  excited 
voice.  "And  this  is  Tom,"  said  the  father,  drawing  the 
older  boy  to  him.  "  He  '//  come  and  see  me  !  He  knows 
his  poor  old  pap  when  he  comes  home  from  the  war  ! " 

Recognizing  the  pain  and  remonstrance  in  her  husband's 
voice,  the  mother  hastened  to  explain :  "  You've  changed 
so,  Ed.'  He  can't  know  yeh.  This  is  papa,  Teddy ;  come 
and  kiss  him  —  Tom  and  Mary  do.  Come,  won't  you?" 
But  Teddy  still  peered  through  the  fence  with  investigating 
eyes,  well  out  of  reach.  "  He  resembled  a  half-wild  kitten 
that  hesitates,  studying  the  tones  of  one's  voice."  "  I'll  fix 
him,"  said  the  soldier,  suddenly  recalling  some  of  his  re- 
sources in  the  knapsack.  Sitting  down,  he  undid  his  knap- 
sack and  drew  out  three  great  red  apples.  Giving  one  to 
each  of  the  older  children,  he  cried :  "  Now  I  guess  he'll 
come.  Eh,  my  little  man?  Now  come  see  your  pap!" 
Teddy  crept  slowly  under  the  fence,  assisted  by  his  zealous 
older  brother,  and  soon  was  kicking  in  his  father's  arms. 


2OO      Provincial  Types  in  the  Mississippi  Valley 

Then  together  they  entered  the  house,  going  into  the  "  sit- 
ting room,"  poor  and  bare,  with  its  rag  carpet,  its  two  or 
three  chromos,  and  its  pictures  from  Harper's  Weekly  pinned 
about  upon  the  walls. 

Once  in  his  own  home  again,  the  exhausted  soldier  flung 
himself  down  upon  the  carpet  as  he  used  to  do,  while  his 
wife  brought  a  pillow  to  put  under  his  head,  and  the  children 
stood  about  munching  their  apples.  And  then  the  soldier 
talked,  question  after  question  pouring  forth  with  regard  to 
crops  and  cattle,  the  renter  and  the  neighbors.  He  slipped 
off  the  great  government  brogans  from  his  tired  and  blistered 
feet,  and  stretched  himself  in  utter  and  blessed  relaxation, 
feeling  no  longer  the  stress  of  a  soldier  under  command. 
At  supper  he  stopped  and  listened  and  smiled  —  it  was  old 
Spot,  the  cow,  that  he  heard.  And  then  came  the  inquiry 
for  the  old  dog  Rover.  Learning  that  he  had  died  the  winter 
before,  probably  by  poison,  the  soldier,  after  a  pause  of  sad- 
dened memory,  spoke  with  trembling  feeling  in  his  voice : 
"  Poor  old  feller  !  He'd  'a'  known  me  half  a  mile  away.  I 
expected  him  to  come  down  the  hill  to  meet  me.  It  'ud  'a' 
been  more  like  comin'  home  if  I  could  'a'  seen  him  comin' 
down  the  road,  an'  waggin'  his  tail,  an'  laughin'  that  way  he 
has.  I  tell  yeh,  it  kind  o'  took  hold  o'  me  to  see  the  blinds 
down  an'  the  house  shut  up." 

Such  was  the  pathos  of  his  home-coming ;  but  now  even 
the  sound  of  the  chickens  out  in  the  yard  was  sweet  to  him, 
and  of  the  turkeys  and  the  crickets.  "  Do  you  know  they 
don't  have  just  the  same  kind  o'  crickets  down  South?" 
And  then  he  thought  of  the  grain  ready  to  cut,  and  of  his 
own  inability  to  do  anything,  on  account  of  the  fever  and 
ague  that  now  had  him  in  its  grip.  "  I  don't  know  when 
I'll  get  rid  of  it.  I'll  bet  I've  took  twenty-five  pounds  of 


"  Main-Traveled  Roads  "  201 

quinine  if  I've  taken  a  bit.  Gimme  another  biscuit.  I 
tell  yeh,  they  taste  good,  Emma.  I  hain't  had  anything 
like  it —  Say,  if  you'd  'a'  hear'd  me  braggin'  to  th'  boys 
about  your  butter  'n'  biscuits,  I'll  bet  your  ears  'ud  'a' 
burnt."  The  gratification  of  the  private's  wife  was  seen  in 
her  deepening  color,  as  she  modestly  said  :  "  Oh,  you're 
always  a-braggin'  about  your  things.  Everybody  makes 
good  butter."  "Yes;  old  lady  Snyder,  for  instance."  "Oh, 
well,  she  ain't  to  be  mentioned.  She's  Dutch."  "  Or  old 
Mis'  Snively.  One  more  cup  o'  tea,  Mary.  That's  my  girl ! 
I'm  feeling  better  already.  I  just  b'lieve  the  matter  with  me 
is,  I'm  starved" 

That  was  one  of  the  sweet  hours  in  the  lives  of  the 
private  and  his  wife  —  they  were  lovers  again;  but  their 
tenderness  was  in  tones  rather  than  in  words.  His  praise 
of  her  biscuit,  she  knew,  was  praise  of  herself.  He  showed 
her  how  near  the  bullets  had  brought  him  to  death,  and  she 
shuddered  to  think  how  near  she  came  to  being  a  soldier's 
widow.  Finally,  they  rose  and  went  out  together  into  the 
garden,  and  down  to  the  barn,  and  he  stood  beside  her  as 
she  milked  old  Spot.  And  there  they  planned  for  fields 
and  crops  another  year.  His  farm  was  weedy,  a  renter  had 
run  off  with  his  machinery,  his  children  needed  clothing,  he 
was  sick  and  thin  and  weak ;  but  the  heroic  soul  that  fought 
on  Southern  battlefields,  because  it  thought  that  there  lay  the 
safety  of  the  nation,  took  up  its  daily  fight  against  nature 
and  debt  and  injustice  with  the  same  unflinching  resolution. 

"  Oh,  that  mystic  hour !  the  pale  man  with  big  eyes 
standing  there  by  the  well,  with  his  young  wife  by  his  side. 
The  vast  moon  swinging  above  the  eastern  peaks,  the  cattle 
winding  down  the  pasture  slopes  with  jangling  bells,  the 
crickets  singing,  the  stars  blooming  out  sweet  and  far  and 


2O2      Provincial  Types  in  the  Mississippi  Valley 

serene ;  the  katydids  rhythmically  calling,  the  little  turkeys 
crying  querulously  as  they  settled  to  roost  in  the  poplar 
tree  near  the  open  gate.  The  voices  at  the  well  drop  lower, 
the  little  ones  nestle  in  their  father's  arms  at  last,  and  Teddy 
falls  asleep  there."  Surely,  here  is  a  real  picture,  —  this 
first  night  of  the  private's  return ;  and  here  are  real  pro- 
vincial types,  —  the  poor  young  farmer,  filled  with  sturdy 
patriotism,  and  returning  to  a  life  burdened  with  disease 
and  debt ;  the  quick-hearted,  driving,  breezy,  and  motherly 
Widow  Gray;  and  the  long-suffering,  brave,  and  patiently 
waiting  little  farmer's  wife,  whose  heroism  was  in  some 
regards  more  difficult  than  that  of  her  sick  and  war-worn 
husband. 

One  of  the  most  characteristic  and  pathetic  sketches  in 
the  book  is  that  of  "  Mrs.  Ripley's  Trip,"  in  which  is  set 
forth  with  delicate  and  intimate  sympathy  the  resolute  en- 
deavor of  old  Mrs.  Ripley  to  pay  a  visit  "  back  to  her  folks 
in  York  State."  She  and  her  husband,  Uncle  Ethan  Ripley, 
were  sitting,  one  windy  November  night,  in  their  poor  little 
shanty,  "  set  like  a  chicken-trap  on  the  vast  Iowa  prairie." 
She  was  knitting  a  stocking  for  her  little  grandson,  after 
having  "  finished  the  supper  dishes,"  and  Uncle  Ethan  was 
mending  his  old  violin.  The  only  light  was  a  tallow  candle, 
—  they  could  afford  "none  o'  them  new-fangled  lamps." 
The  room  was  small,  the  chairs  hard,  the  walls  bare,  —  pov- 
erty was  plainly  an  ever-present  guest.  Mrs.  Ripley,  look- 
ing pathetically  small  and  hopeless  in  her  faded,  ill-fitting 
garments,  knitted  tirelessly  with  her  knotted,  stiffened  fin- 
gers, but  in  her  little  black  eyes  sparkled  a  peculiar  light, 
and  "  in  the  straight  line  of  her  withered  and  shapeless  lips  " 
there  was  written  an  unusual  resoluteness. 

Suddenly  she  stopped,  and,  looking  at  her  husband,  said 


"  Main-Traveled  Roads  "  203 

decisively  :  "  Ethan  Ripley,  you'll  haff  to  do  your  own  cook- 
ing from  now  on  to  New  Year's.  I'm  goin'  back  to  Yaark 
State."  Uncle  Ethan  was  naturally  amazed,  and  the  ques- 
tion of  the  cost  at  once  leaped  to  the  first  place  in  the  old 
man's  mind.  The  financial  consideration  seemed  to  him  to 
put  the  whole  idea  out  of  the  question.  Her  intimation 
that  she  would  get  the  money  herself,  and  that  if  she  waited 
for  him  to  pay  her  way  the  visit  would  never  take  place, 
aroused  the  old  man  to  self-defense,  in  which  he  insisted  he 
had  done  his  part.  "  I  don't  know  what  y'  call  doin'  my 
part,  Ethan  Ripley ;  but  if  cookin*  for  a  drove  of  harvest 
hands  and  thrashin'  hands,  takin'  care  o'  the  eggs  and 
butter,  'n'  diggin'  taters  an'  milkin'  ain't  my  part,  I  don't 
never  expect  to  do  my  part,  'n'  you  might  as  well  know  it 
fust's  last." 

She  declared  she  was  now  sixty  years  old,  and  had  never 
had  a  day  to  herself,  "  not  even  Fourth  o'  July."  "  I  ain't 
been  away  t'  stay  over  night  for  thirteen  years  in  this  house, 
'n'  it  was  just  so  in  Davis  County  for  ten  more.  For  twenty- 
three  years,  Ethan  Ripley,  I've  stuck  right  to  the  stove  an' 
churn  without  a  day  or  a  night  off."  And  during  every  one 
of  those  years  she  had  "just  about  promised  "  herself  to  go 
back  and  see  her  "  folks." 

After  Tukey,  the  little  grandson,  had  been  sent  upstairs 
to  bed,  the  old  man,  with  a  sense  of  having  been  put  in  an 
ungenerous  attitude  toward  his  wife's  going,  said  apologeti- 
cally :  "Wai,  I'm  just  as  willin'  you  should  go  as  I  am  for 
myself,  but  if  I  ain't  got  no  money  I  don't  see  how  I'm 
goin'  to  send  — "  But  his  wife  broke  in  upon  him :  "  I 
don't  want  ye  to  send;  nobody  ast  ye  to,  Ethan  Ripley. 
I  guess  if  I  had  what  I've  earnt  since  we  came  on  this  farm, 
I'd  have  enough  to  go  to  Jericho  with."  He  insisted,  how- 


204      Provincial  Types  in  the  Mississippi  Valley 

ever,  though  gently,  that  she  had  got  as  much  out  of  it  as 
he  had.  "  Ain't  I  been  wantin'  to  go  back  myself  ?  And 
ain't  I  kep'  still  'cause  I  see  it  wa'n't  no  use?  I  guess  I've 
worked  jest  as  long  and  as  hard  as  you,  an'  in  storms  an'  in 
mud  an'  heat,  ef  it  comes  t'  that."  To  which  his  wife, 
though  recognizing  the  justice  of  his  remarks,  replied  rather 
pungently,  "Wai,  if  you'd  'a'  managed  as  well  as  I  have, 
you'd  have  some  money  to  go  with." 

The  next  day,  in  the  midst  of  cold  blustering  weather, 
the  old  man  was  husking  alone  in  the  field,  his  gaunt  figure 
covered  with  two  or  three  ragged  coats,  his  hands  partly 
protected  with  gloves  that  lacked  most  of  the  fingers,  his 
thumbs  done  up  in  "  stalls,"  and  his  feet  thrust  into  great 
coarse  boots.  His  hands  were  wet  with  handling  the  ears 
of  corn,  and  chapped  and  sore.  Meditating  on  the  subject 
of  his  wife's  visit,  he  came  to  the  generous  conclusion  that 
she  really  needed  a  "  play- spell."  "  I  ain't  likely  to  be  no 
richer  next  year  than  I  am  this  one ;  if  I  wait  till  I'm  able 
to  send  her  she  won't  never  go.  I  calc'late  I  c'n  git  enough 
out  o'  them  shoats  to  send  her.  I'd  kind  a'  lotted  on  eat'n' 
them  pigs  done  up  in  sassengers,  but  if  the  oP  woman  goes 
East,  Tukey  an'  me'll  kind  a'  haff  to  pull  through  without 
'em.  .  .  .  Then  there  is  my  buffalo  overcoat.  I'd  kind  a' 
calc'lated  on  havin'  a  buffalo  —  but  that's  gone  up  the 
spout  along  with  them  sassengers." 

Coming  in  that  evening  with  a  big  armful  of  wood,  which 
he  let  fall  with  a  crash  into  the  wood-box,  he  slapped  his 
mittens  together  to  knock  off  the  ice  and  snow,  and  said : 
"  I  was  tellin'  Tukey  t'-day  that  it  was  a  dum  shame  our 
crops  hadn't  turned  out  better.  An'  when  I  saw  oV  Hat- 
field  go  by  I  hailed  him,  an'  asked  him  what  he'd  gimme 
for  two  o*  m'  shoats.  Wai,  the  upshot  is,  I  sent  t'  town  for 


"  Main-Traveled  Roads  "  205 

some  things  I  calc'late  you'd  need.  An'  here's  a  ticket  to 
Georgetown,  and  ten  dollars."  Whereupon  Mrs.  Ripley, 
touched  by  the  unexpected  tenderness  and  sacrifice  of  her 
husband,  broke  down  and  sobbed.  "  She  felt  like  kissing 
him,  but  she  didn't." 

The  unaccustomed  tears  of  his  wife  made  the  old  man 
walk  over  and  timidly  touch  her  hair,  explaining  as  he  did 
so  that  he  was  going  to  sell  the  pigs  anyway.  Suddenly 
Mrs.  Ripley  sprang  up,  ran  into  the  bedroom,  and  quickly 
returned  with  a  yarn  mitten,  tied  round  the  wrist,  which  she 
laid  on  the  table  with  emphasis.  "  I  don't  want  yer  money. 
There's  money  enough  to  take  me  where  I  want  to  go." 
She  emptied  the  contents  of  the  mitten,  and  there  on  the 
table  lay  the  savings  of  many  years,  mostly  in  silver  dimes 
and  quarters.  "  They's  jest  seventy-five  dollars  and  thirty 
cents,"  she  said  proudly;  "jest  about  enough  to  go  back 
on.  Ticket  is  fifty-five  dollars,  goin'  and  comin'.  That 
leaves  twenty  dollars  for  other  expenses,  not  countin'  what 
I've  already  spent,  which  is  six-fifty.  It's  plenty."  She  de- 
clared against  such  unnecessary  expenses  on  the  trip  as 
sleepers  and  hotel  bills.  "  I  ain't  agoin'  to  pay  them  pirates 
as  much  for  a  day's  board  as  we'd  charge  for  a  week's,  and 
have  nawthin'  to  eat  but  dishes.  I'm  goin'  to  take  a  chicken 
an'  some  hard-boiled  eggs,  an'  I'm  goin'  right  through  to 
Georgetown." 

Her  husband  finally  persuaded  her  to  accept  the  ticket 
he  had  bought  for  her,  —  when  she  learned  that  the  railroad 
company  would  refuse  to  take  it  back ;  and  the  next  day 
they  drove  together  to  the  little  town  where  she  was  to  take 
the  train.  The  day  was  cold  and  raw,  there  was  some  snow 
on  the  ground,  and  the  old  people  sat  on  a  board  laid 
across  the  wagon  box,  an  old  quilt  or  two  drawn  up  over 


206      Provincial  Types  in  the  Mississippi  Valley 

their  laps.  Mrs.  Ripley  wore  a  shawl  over  her  head,  and 
carried  her  queer  little  bonnet  in  her  hand.  Her  last 
words  to  old  Uncle  Ethan  were  :  "  You'll  find  a  jar  o'  sweet 
pickles  an'  some  crab-apple  sauce  down  suller,  'n'  you'd 
better  melt  up  brown  sugar  for  'lasses,  'n'  for  goodness' 
sake  don't  eat  all  them  mince-pies  up  the  fust  week,  'n' 
see  that  Tukey  ain't  froze  goin'  to  school.  An'  now  you'd 
better  get  out  for  home.  Good-by !  an'  remember  them 
pies." 

One  cold  winter's  day  a  queer  little  figure  was  seen  strug- 
gling along  the  country  road,  blocked  here  and  there  with 
drifts.  It  was  Mrs.  Ripley  getting  back  from  "Yaark 
State."  She  was  laden  with  bundles,  and  every  now  and 
then  the  wind  would  twist  her  full-skirted  black  dress  about 
her  and  sail  her  off  into  the  deep  snow  outside  the  track. 
But  she  held  bravely  on  till  she  reached  a  neighbor's  gate. 
To  an  insistent  invitation  to  stay,  she  energetically  replied  : 
"  I  must  be  gittin'  back  to  Ripley.  I  expec'  that  man  has 
jes  let  ev'ry  thing  go  six  ways  f  r  Sunday.  ...  I  s'pose 
they  have  had  a  gay  time  of  it "  (she  meant  the  opposite 
of  gay).  "Wai,  as  I  told  Lizy  Jane,  I've  had  my  spree,  an' 
now  I've  got  to  git  back  to  work.  There  ain't  no  rest  for 
such  as  we  are.  .  .  .  I've  -saw  a  pile  o'  this  world,  Mrs. 
Stacey  —  a  pile  of  it !  I  didn't  think  they  was  so  many  big 
houses  in  the  world  as  I  saw  b'tween  here  an'  Chicago.  .  .  . 
Good-by  !  I  must  be  gittin'  home  to  Ripley.  He'll  want 
his  supper  on  time." 

Uncle  Ripley  was  at  the  bam  when  she  arrived,  and  when 
he  came  in  she  had  her  "  regimentals  "  on,  the  stove  was 
brushed,  the  room  swept,  and  she  was  deep  in  the  dish-pan. 
"  Hullo,  mother  !  got  back,  hev  yeh?  "  "  I  sh'd  say  it  was 
about  time"  she  answered  curtly,  without  stopping  her  work. 


ic  Main-Traveled  Roads  "  207 

"Has  ol'  ' Grumpy'  dried  up  yit?"     And  Mrs.  Ripley's 
long-considered  trip  was  done. 

Such  laborious,  patient,  saving,  and  unselfish  types  as 
Uncle  Ethan  Ripley  and  his  resolute  little  wife  lend  a  pathos 
and  heroic  quality  to  the  history  of  farm  life  in  the  great 
Northwest. 


PROVINCIAL   TYPES    IN   THE    FAR 
WEST 

CHAPTER  XV 

A  BRIEF  SURVEY  OF  THE  FIELD 

IN  such  stories  as  the  "Led-Horse  Claim,"  "Cceur 
d'Alene,"  and  "John  Bodewin's  Testimony,"  Mary  Hallock 
Foote  has  presented  various  phases  of  Western  mining 
life  with  sympathetic  feeling  and  literary  art ;  and  in  short 
stories  like  "The  King  of  the  Broncos,"  "The  Bite  of 
the  Pichucuate,"  and  "  Bonifacio's  Horse-Thief,"  Charles  F. 
Lummis  gives  us  vivid  sketches  of  characteristic  life  on  the 
plains  of  New  Mexico  and  Arizona,  —  a  remote  region  that 
he  has  made  peculiarly  his  own  by  patient  sympathy,  long 
residence,  and  intimate  study  both  of  its  past  and  its  pres- 
ent. Together  with  Mr.  Lummis,  Frederic  Remington,  by 
his  "  Sundown  Leflare,"  his  "  Crooked  Trails,"  and  his  "  Men 
with  the  Bark  On,"  — and  most  of  all  by  his  remarkably  life- 
like and  vigorous  illustrations,  —  has  saved  for  us  the  rapidly 
changing  types  in  the  Southwestern  states  and  territories. 
Such  literary  work  as  these  two  men  have  done  deserves 
wide  and  long  recognition  for  its  uniqueness  and  virility, 
and  for  the  fact  that  what  it  has  sought  to  portray  is  almost 
aboriginal  and  rapidly  passing  away. 

Although  nothing  else  in  the  flood  of  very  recent  fiction 
208 


A  Brief  Survey  of  the  Field  209 

is  included  in  the  scope  of  the  present  volume,  it  was  found 
impossible  to  pass  by  "The  Virginian"  by  Owen  Wister, 
because,  in  looking  for  a  broad  and  convincing  character- 
ization of  the  "cow-puncher"  of  the  Western  plains,  the 
mind  irresistibly  reverts  to  Miss  Molly  Wood's  cowboy  that 
rode  and  shot  and  won  on  the  high  plains  of  Wyoming.  By 
his  stories  in  "  Red  Men  and  White  "  and  his  more  sus- 
tained effort  in  "  Lin  McLean,"  Mr.  Wister,  a  Philadelphian 
and  Harvard  man,  had  served  a  long  and  careful  appren- 
ticeship in  literary  art  as  a  preparation  for  this  really  great 
book  on  Western  life  and  character.  And  his  years  of  close 
familiarity  with  the  wide,  wild  country  that  reaches  from  the 
plains  of  Wyoming  to  the  "  painted  desert "  of  Arizona  and 
the  ranches  of  Texas  have  given  him  a  peculiar  right  and 
privilege  to  portray  it  permanently  in  literature. 

From  one  point  of  view  "  The  Virginian,"  as  Mr.  Wister 
himself  suggests  in  the  preface,  may  be  looked  upon  as  an 
"historical  novel,"  for  "Wyoming,  between  1874  and  1890 
[the  period  covered  by  the  novel],  was  a  colony  as  wild 
as  was  Virginia  one  hundred  years  earlier.  As  wild,  with  a 
scantier  population,  and  the  same  primitive  joys  and  dan- 
gers." But,  like  the  buffalo  and  antelope  and  roving  multi- 
tudes of  cattle,  the  horseman  will  never  come  again,  —  at 
least  on  the  plains  of  Wyoming.  "  He  rides  in  his  historic 
yesterday." 

And  so,  as  the  portrayal  of  a  unique  and  vanishing  type  of 
American  provincial  life,  "  The  Virginian  "  is  doubly  worth 
studying,  —  from  the  historical  and  from  the  literary  point  of 
view.  Surely  the  literary  art  that  has  gone  into  the  book  is 
something  fine  and  refreshing, — one  gets  that  sense  of  free- 
dom and  largeness,  of  nobility  and  wholesomeness,  of  being 
close  to  mother  earth  and  also  to  the  star-sown  sky  of  true 


2io        Provincial  Types  in  the  Far  West 

romance,  which,  after  all,  is  the  highest  effect  of  great 
art. 

The  gambling  Virginian,  his  hand  holding  the  unaimed 
pistol  on  the  card  table  and  his  soft,  drawling  voice  saying 
significantly  to  Trampas,  "  When  you  call  me  that,  smile  "  ; 
the  humorous  Virginian,  sharing  his  bed  with  the  patronizing 
drummer;  the  sympathetic  Virginian,  tenderly  helping  little 
"  Em'ly,"  the  spinster  hen,  in  her  ludicrous  attempts  at 
motherhood,  after  puppies  and  potatoes  had  failed ;  the 
strong  and  chivalric  Virginian,  lifting  the  pale  little  school- 
teacher out  of  the  half-submerged  stage  and  carrying  her  off 
through  the  flood ;  and  the  same  somewhat  jealous  Virgin- 
ian, joining  with  Lin  McLean  in  exchanging  babies,  —  the 
versatility  and  humor  of  this  portraiture  are  indeed  original 
and  engaging. 

The  Virginian  as  an  indomitable  lover,  with  his  "  You're 
goin'  to  love  me  before  we  get  through" ;  his  sublimely 
humorous  frog  story,  with  its  significant  close,  —  "  Frawgs 
are  dead,  Trampas,  and  so  are  you  " ;  his  spiritual,  long- 
continued  vigils  with  the  orthodox  and  full-fed  preacher, 
Dr.  MacBride ;  the  wounded,  almost  dying  man,  with  his 
head  resting  against  Molly  Wood  as  she  washed  away  the 
blood,  near  the  spring ;  his  pitiful  attempts  to  ride  the  five 
miles  to  safety  and  her  heroic  efforts  to  help  him  on  the 
way;  her  brave  and  admirable  nursing;  his  characteristic- 
comment  on  the  close  of  Browning's  poem  that  she  read  to 
him  ;  his  pathetic  confession  to  her  that  he  was  not  fitted  to 
make  her  happy, — "This  is  no  country  for  a  lady" ;  and  the 
two,  with  the  brilliant  folds  of  the  Navajo  blanket  about  them, 
and  Grandmother  Stark's  picture  looking  down  upon  them  in 
a  faint  sort  of  approval,  —  such  phases  of  the  story  have  in 
them  a  human  and  dramatic  touch  that  marks  real  literature. 


A  Brief  Survey  of  the  Field  211 

But  nowhere  in  the  book  does  the  weirdly  dramatic  reach 
such  an  intensity  as  in  the  night  preceding  the  hanging  of 
the  horse-thieves  to  the  cottonwoods  ;  and  nowhere  does 
the  almost  hopelessly  tragic  reach  such  a  precipice  of 
breathless  interest  as  when,  at  sunset,  the  Virginian  overrules 
the  appealing  terror  of  his  sweetheart,  and  walks  cautiously 
out  to  shoot  and  be  shot  at.  The  dead  Trampas,  with  all  his 
malevolence  and  murderous  cunning  while  alive,  clears  the 
horizon  for  that  wonderful  honeymoon  on  the  island  and  up 
among  the  mountain  pines,  and  for  that  rather  humorous 
visit  back  in  Bennington  among  the  conventional  relatives. 

At  times  it  seems  as  if  Molly  Wood  were  hardly  worth 
the  Virginian's  while,  but  in  the  final  test  she  is  seen  to  be 
the  true  descendant  of  old  Grandmother  Stark,  —  a  woman 
of  heart  and  soul,  of  nerve  and  will,  that  came  into  a  full 
appreciation  of  the  Virginian's  unusual  and  genuinely  noble 
and  lovable  qualities,  which  proved  to  be  in  such  combina- 
tion as  to  win  and  hold  her  love. 

In  Hamlin  Garland,  also,  the  Far  West  has  found  a  fortu- 
nate interpreter ;  and  in  the  "  Eagle's  Heart,"  "  Her  Moun- 
tain Lover,"  and  most  of  all  in  the  "  Captain  of  the  Gray 
Horse  Troop,"  there  is  felt  a  full  familiarity  with  its  life,  a 
strong  power  of  characterization,  and,  in  the  last-mentioned 
volume,  a  remarkable  sympathy  with  the  Indian  mind  in  its 
highest  and  truest  outworkings.  The  same  fine  sympathy 
with  the  Indian  character  is  seen  in  Helen  Hunt  Jackson's 
"  Ramona,"  —  that  beautiful  romance  of  Southern  Califor- 
nia life,  —  even  if  the  author  has  attempted  to  read  into  her 
Indian  types  many  of  the  emotions  and  aspirations  of  her 
own  poetic  and  philanthropic  nature. 

In  such  unique  short  stories  as  the  "  Pearls  of  Loreto," 
the  "Bells  of  San  Gabriel,"  and  "When  the  Devil  was 


212         Provincial  Types  in  the  Far  West 

Well,"  —  found  in  the  collection  entitled  "Before  the  Gringo 
Came,"  —  Mrs.  Gertrude  Atherton  has  made  striking  studies 
in  fiction  of  the  earlier  mixed  Spanish  and  American  life  in 
California  ;  and  being  herself  a  native  of  San  Francisco,  with 
a  commingling  of  blood  from  Louisiana  and  New  England, 
and  having  deliberately  lived  some  of  her  later  life  in  old 
towns  and  hamlets  where  some  of  the  older  Spanish  customs 
and  types  survive,  she  seems  peculiarly  fitted  by  experience 
and  natural  endowment  to  picture  with  sympathy  and  an  ap- 
proach to  truthfulness  the  traits  and  types  that  differentiate 
dwellers  on  the  Southern  Pacific  slope  from  Americans  of 
other  sections  of  the  country.  There  is  much  of  the  spirit  of 
romance  in  her  work,  as  is  illustrated  in  "  The  Californians  "  ; 
but  it  grows  easily  out  of  the  social  conditions  and  the  nat- 
ural environment  which  Mrs.  Atherton  so  fully  comprehends 
and  feels.  Mr.  Ambrose  Bierce  has  also  touched  phases  of 
California  character  and  scenery  in  his  book  of  weird  short 
stories  called  "  Can  Such  Things  Be  ?  " 

But  for  a  certain  side  of  earlier  and  more  picturesque 
California  life,  —  the  crude,  primitive,  daring  life  of  the 
miner  and  the  gambler,  the  fallen  woman  and  the  philan- 
thropic schoolmistress,  and  all  the  free,  resolute  types  of  a 
transplanted  and  heterogeneous  civilization  that  characterize 
the  frontier,  the  American,  and  especially  the  English,  reader 
will  instinctively  turn  to  Bret  Harte,  whose  best  work  was 
done  while  he  was  still  a  resident  of  California  himself.  For 
removal  to  the  East,  under  the  stress  of  great  popularity, 
and  later  to  England  for  the  rest  of  his  life,  seems  not  to 
have  given  him  much  new  literary  material,  but  rather  to 
have  sent  his  imagination  and  affection  back  to  the  once 
virgin  fields  of  the  great  Pacific  slope,  where  lived  (and  still 
live,  thanks  to  their  creator)  the  improvised  midwife 


A  Brief  Survey  of  the  Field  213 

Stumpy,  the  heroic  Kentuck  that  dying  took  "  The  Luck  " 
with  him,  and  the  wilful  but  loyal  M'liss ;  the  imperturbable, 
smooth-handed  Oakhurst,  "who  struck  a  streak  of  bad 
luck  "  and  "  handed  in  his  checks  "  on  a  certain  December 
day  of  1850 ;  the  tactful  Higgles  and  her  collapsing  charge  ; 
Yuba  Bill,  the  reminiscent  and  facetious  stage-driver;  and 
"Tennessee's  Partner,"  who  vainly  argued  for  Tennessee 
with  a  full  bag  of  gold.  And  where  shall  we  find  a  more 
dramatic  ride  than  that  of  Dick  Bullen  and  the  swift-footed 
Jovita,  dashing  through  the  night  over  Rattlesnake  Hill  in 
quest  of  Christmas  toys  for  poor  little  Johnny,  who  had 
"a  fevier,  and  childblains  and  roomatiz"  ?  Such  a  theme, 
with  all  its  movement  and  human  quality,  might  fitly  have 
been  celebrated  by  the  author  of  "  How  They  Brought  the 
Good  News  from  Ghent  to  Aix."  The  broken-armed  Dick, 
arriving  at  Simpson's  Bar  at  dawn  and  fainting  on  the  thresh- 
old, with  the  remark  that  "  Sandy  Claus  has  come,"  is  a 
picture  of  pioneer  sentiment  and  pathos  that  only  Bret 
Harte  knows  how  to  paint  with  poetic  touch. 

It  was  as  far  back  as  1868,  when  Mr.  Harte  became, 
with  Noah  Brooks,  the  editor  of  the  Overland  Monthly  in 
San  Francisco,  that  "  The  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp  "  made 
its  appearance  in  the  second  number  of  the  magazine ;  and 
the  first  issue  of  the  monthly  in  1869  contained  another 
short  story  that  suddenly  showed  the  literary  world  a  genius 
of  a  new  order,  —  it  was  the  thrilling  short  drama  of  "  The 
Outcasts  of  Poker  Flat."  "M'liss,"  "Miggles,"  "Tennes- 
see's Partner,"  and  "  How  Santa  Claus  Came  to  Simpson's 
Bar,"  with  the  two  short  stories  just  mentioned,  make  up  a 
collection  as  unique  and  dramatic  as  anything  in  American 
literature.  And  with  all  that  seems  melodramatic  in  their 
make-up  and  with  all  their  peculiar  insistence  on  certain 


214        Provincial  Types  in  the  Far  West 

traits  that  might  not  be  celebrated  in  the  most  "respect- 
able "  literature,  these  short  stories  have  a  vital  quality,  a 
subtlety  of  humorous  sense,  and  a  power  of  swift  character- 
ization that  make  them  a  fresh  delight  to  each  new  circle 
of  readers.  They  have,  too,  a  sensitive  poetical  feeling  for 
the  grandeur  and  beauty  of  the  California  mountains,  for 
the  brilliant  depths  of  the  California  sky,  and  the  impress- 
iveness  of  the  great  woods  that  constitute  a  unique  setting 
for  the  strange,  picturesque  types  Mr.  Harte  has  drawn  with 
so  light  and  yet  so  strong  a  hand.  Some  of  these  provincial 
characters  are  as  truly  rescued  from  oblivion  by  the  art  of 
Bret  Harte  as  the  Creole  types  have  been  by  Mr.  Cable,  the 
Tennessee  mountain  types  by  Miss  Murfree,  or  the  Hoosier 
types  by  Edward  Eggleston.  Although  in  his  longer-sustained 
erfort  of  "  Gabriel  Conroy,"  Mr.  Harte  seems  not  to  be  at 
his  best,  in  his  other  short  stories,  like  "  Found  at  Blazing 
Star"  and  "A  Ship  of  '49,"  included  in  the  collection 
entitled  "  Frontier  Stories,"  and  "  The  Rose  of  Tuolomne  " 
and  "  An  Heiress  of  Red  Dog,"  included  in  "  Tales  of  the 
Argonauts,"  one  feels  the  same  sense  of  easy  power  in 
dialogue  and  characterization,  the  same  spontaneous  and 
satirical  humor,  and  the  same  sympathy  with  the  crude, 
picturesque  life  of  early  California,  that  was  felt  in  his  first 
famous  book  of  stories. 

So  brief  a  survey  of  the  field  of  fiction  that  portrays  the 
varied  phases  of  provincial  life  in  America  can  in  the 
nature  of  things  be  only  suggestive,  —  no  pretense  is  made 
that  it  is  comprehensive  or  exhaustive ;  but  enough  has  been 
glanced  at  in  the  groupings  of  this  volume  to  show  how  at- 
tractive is  the  field,  and  how  much  richness  of  enjoyment 
lies  in  the  reading  and  study  of  American  literature  from 
this  point  of  view. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

"THE  VIRGINIAN"  BY  OWEN  WISTER 

A  CLOSE  scrutiny  of  heroes  in  fiction  is  likely  to  reveal  the 
fact  that  very  few  of  them  are  actually  men,  and  the  highest 
praise  bestowed  on  "  Tom  Jones  "  is  said  to  be  that  of  a 
great  critical  authority  who  remarked  of  the  novel,  "  This 
is  not  a  book,  but  a  man."  It  would  not,  perhaps,  be  far 
from  a  fair  critical  estimate  to  say  of  "  The  Virginian  "  that 
this  is  a  man ;  a  Virginian,  to  be  sure,  with  his  soft,  drawl- 
ing tones  and  his  chivalrous  attitude  toward  the  weak,  — 
but  a  man  also,  in  the  larger  sense,  who  gathers  up  into 
his  hard  and  dramatic  life  the  virile  elements  of  the  great 
West.  This  is  a  real  man,  who  would  have  been  different 
in  his  physical  and  mental  and  moral  make-up  if  he  had 
lived  under  a  less  rugged  and  exacting  environment  than  the 
high  plains  of  Wyoming  in  the  period  between  1874  and 
1890.  As  a  cow-puncher,  —  a  horseman  with  his  "pastur- 
ing thousands,"  he  is  a  vanishing  type,  broadly  and  lastingly 
portrayed.  And  it  is  a  matter  of  good  fortune  that  one  so 
conversant  with  the  type  and  its  environment  should  have 
had  the  privilege  of  giving  them  a  permanent  place  in 
American  literature ;  for,  as  Mr.  Wister  himself  says  of  his 
plainsman  in  his  suggestive  introduction  "To  the  Reader," 
"You  will  no  more  see  him  gallop  out  of  the  unchanging 
silence  than  you  will  see  Columbus  on  the  unchanging  sea 
come  sailing  from  Palos  with  his  caravels." 

215 


216         Provincial  Types  in  the  Far  West 

The  first  view  that  the  narrator  of  "  The  Virginian  "  got 
of  his  prospective  hero  was  through  a  Pullman  car  window 
at  Medicine  Bow,  where  the  roping  of  some  cow  ponies  in  a 
corral  near  the  water-tank  of  the  railroad  was  going  on 
rather  unsuccessfully.  One  pony  in  particular  defied  and 
evaded  the  most  skillful  of  the  cowboys,  whose  humorous 
curses  could  be  heard  even  through  the  glass  of  the  car 
windows.  No  stratagem  or  skill  in  hurling  the  rope  seemed 
able  to  catch  the  agile  and  swift-eyed  pony.  Suddenly  a 
man  sitting  on  the  high  gate  of  the  corral,  looking  on, 
climbed  down  "  with  the  undulations  of  a  tiger,  smooth 
and  easy,  as  if  his  muscles  flowed  beneath  his  skin."  The 
others  had  visibly  hurled  the  rope,  some  even  shoulder 
high ;  but  this  man's  arm  seemed  neither  to  lift  nor  move. 
He  apparently  held  the  rope  low  down,  by  his  leg ;  then 
"like  a  sudden  snake,"  the  noose  shot  out  its  full  length 
and  fell  true  ;  and  the  thing  was  done.  "  As  the  captured 
pony  walked  in  with  a  sweet,  church-door  expression,  our 
train  moved  slowly  on  to  the  station,  and  a  passenger 
approvingly  remarked,  'That  man  knows  his  business.'" 

A  lost  trunk  had  so  disconcerted  Judge  Henry's  guest,  — 
who  tells  the  story,  —  that  he  was  oblivious  of  the  shin- 
ing antelope  among  the  sage-brush  and  the  great  sunset 
light  of  Wyoming,  when  his  attention  was  diverted  by  a 
dialogue  between  a  man  with  a  gentle,  drawling  Southern 
voice,  and  another  who  was  addressed  as  "Uncle  Hughey." 
The  narrator  stepped  to  the  door  of  the  baggage-room  and 
noted  the  man  with  the  Southern  drawl.  It  was  "The 
Virginian."  "Lounging  there  at  ease  against  the  wall  was 
a  slim  young  giant,  more  beautiful  than  pictures."  His 
soft,  broad  hat,  pushed  back,  a  loose-knotted,  dull-scarlet 
handkerchief  sagging  from  his  throat,  one  thumb  hooked 


"  The  Virginian  "  217 

into  his  slanting  cartridge-belt,  and  boots  and  overalls 
white  with  dust  that  indicated  long  travel  through  the 
country,  —  these  were  evident  at  a  glance.  "  The  weather- 
beaten  bloom  of  his  face  shone  through  it  [the  dust]  duskily, 
as  the  ripe  peaches  look  upon  their  trees  in  a  dry  season. 
But  no  dinginess  of  travel  or  shabbiness  of  attire  could 
tarnish  the  splendor  that  radiated  from  his  youth  and 
strength." 

Judge  Henry's  guest  suggested  to  the  Virginian  that  his 
valise  would  be  sufficient  for  a  day  or  two,  —  when  the  lost 
trunk  might  be  sent  for,  —  and  that  they  might  start  for  the 
Judge's  home  at  once  if  it  didn't  bring  them  there  too  late. 
It  was  then  sunset.  Whereat  the  Virginian  coolly  remarked  : 
"  It's  two  hundred  and  sixty-three  miles."  So  that  a  night 
in  Medicine  Bow  on  the  top  of  a  counter  was  the  only  alter- 
native for  the  Judge's  guest.  And  such  a  night  the  "  tender- 
foot "  had  never  seen  !  For  it  was  on  that  night  in  a  saloon 
that  the  tenderfoot  learned  what  manner  of  man  the  soft- 
spoken  Virginian  was. 

Five  or  six  players  sat  in  a  corner  at  a  round  table  where 
counters  were  piled,  among  them  the  Virginian  and  Trampas, 
the  dealer  of  the  cards.  Such  expressions  as  "  Why  didn't 
you  stay  in  Arizona?"  and  "Well,  Arizona's  no  place  for 
amatures,"  stirred  something  of  a  sensation  in  the  room, 
for  they  were  evidently  directed  at  the  Virginian,  who  the 
year  before  had  paid  a  visit  to  Arizona.  The  ugliness  in  the 
voice  of  Trampas,  the  dealer,  was  due  to  the  fact  that  he 
was  losing  to  the  Virginian,  who  was  a  stranger  to  him. 
When  it  came  the  Virginian's  turn  to  bet,  or  leave  the 
game,  he  deliberated  a  moment  or  two,  —  long  enough  for 

the  insulting  Trampas  to  say,  "  Your  bet,  you  son-of-a ." 

Suddenly  the  Virginian's  pistol  came  out,  and  holding  it  in 


21 8        Provincial  Types  in  the  Far  West 

his  hand,  unairaed,  on  the  table,  and  speaking  in  his  charac- 
teristically soft  drawl,  —  though  a  little  longer  drawn  than 
usual  —  he  gave  his  orders  to  Trampas,  "  When  you  call  me 
that,  smile"  "  Yes,  the  voice  was  gentle.  But  in  my  ears  it 
seemed  as  if  somewhere  the  bell  of  death  was  ringing ;  and 
silence,  like  a  stroke,  fell  on  the  large  room."  Some  were 
crouching,  and  some  shifting  their  positions,  while  the  nar- 
rator, in  his  ignorance  of  what  it  all  meant,  stood  stock-still. 
It  meant  to  Trampas  either  "the  choice  to  back  down  or 
draw  his  steel."  And  he  didn't  draw  his  steel.  There  were 
no  more  contemptuous  remarks  on  the  part  of  Trampas 
about  "  amatures,"  for  in  the  person  of  the  black-haired, 
soft-voiced  Virginian  was  a  proved  expert  in  the  art  of 
self-preservation. 

The  admiration  of  one  of  the  card-dealers  for  the  Virgin- 
ian's superb  quickness  and  coolness  was  thus  expressed  to  a 
player  who  had  evidently  been  very  nervous  over  the  situa- 
tion :  "  You  got  ready  to  dodge.  You  had  no  call  to  be 
concerned.  .  .  .  It's  not  a  brave  man  that's  dangerous. 
It's  the  cowards  that  scare  me."  Having  illustrated  his 
last  remark  by  a  recent  shooting  incident  in  the  saloon,  the 
dealer  continued :  "  And  that's  why  I  never  like  to  be 
around  where  there's  a  coward.  You  can't  tell.  He'll 
always  go  to  shooting  before  it's  necessary,  and  there's  no 
security  who  he'll  hit.  But  a  man  like  that  black-headed 
guy  is "  (the  dealer  indicated  the  Virginian)  "  need  never 
worry  you.  And  there's  another  point  why  there's  no  need 
to  worry  about  him  :  if  II  be  too  late!  " 

That  night  Judge  Henry's  guest  learned  more  of  the  Vir- 
ginian's resourcefulness  and  humor ;  and  on  their  long  and 
adventurous  ride  together  across  the  country  the  Virginian's 
personal  dignity  and  strong  self-respect,  his  droll  wit  and 


"  The  Virginian  "  219 

shrewd  penetration,  his  courage  and  splendid  "  nerve,"  and 
his  love  and  mastery  of  horses,  were  all  abundantly  illus- 
trated. Near  the  end  of  their  journey  together  they  were 
met  by  a  friend  of  the  Virginian's  —  Mr.  Taylor  by  name  — 
who  gave  the  news  that  Bear  Creek  was  to  have  a  school- 
house  and  a  "  schoolmarm."  Mr.  Taylor  handed  the 
Judge's  guest  a  letter  from  a  possible  candidate  in  the  East, 
—  Miss  Mary  Stark  Wood  of  Bennington,  Vermont,  —  and 
wanted  to  know  how  it  "  sized  up  "  with  the  letters  "  they 
write  back  East."  The  signature  was  of  especial  signifi- 
cance to  the  Virginian,  —  it  read,  "  Your  very  sincere  spin- 
ster " ;  whereat  Mr.  Taylor  guessed  she  was  forty,  but  the 
Virginian,  twenty.  "  Her  handwriting  ain't  like  any  I've 
saw,"  commented  Mr.  Taylor.  "But  Bear  Creek  would 
not  object  to  that,  provided  she  knows  'rithmetic  and 
George  Washington  and  them  kind  of  things."  The  Vir- 
ginian's comment,  as  he  sat  looking  at  the  letter,  was  some- 
what penetrating :  "  I  expect  she  is  not  an  awful  sincere 
spinster.  .  .  .  Your  real  spinster  don't  speak  of  her  lot 
that  easy." 

Mr.  Wister's  talent  for  humorous  narrative  of  an  unusual 
sort  is  seen  at  its  best  in  the  chapter  called  "  Em'ly,"  which 
describes  the  forlorn  and  ridiculous  attempts  of  an  "  old- 
maid  "  hen  to  be  a  mother,  —  her  attempts  including  re- 
peated "  settings  "  on  potatoes,  onions,  soap,  green  peaches, 
and  oval  stones,  and  her  adoptions  embracing  bantams, 
young  turkeys,  and  setter  puppies  !  The  Virginian's  joyous 
sense  of  humor,  his  tender  sympathy,  and  his  quick  power 
of  drawing  human  analogies  are  made  an  inseparable  part 
of  this  unique  chapter,  in  which  the  Virginian  and  the 
Judge's  guest  are  drawn  so  intimately  together. 

Four  days  of  train  and  thirty  hours  of  stage  had  brought 


220        Provincial  Types  in  the  Far  West 

Miss  Mary  Stark  Wood  to  the  crossing  of  a  river  on  the 
Western  plains.  She  had  refused  to  marry,  back  in  Ben- 
nington,  Vermont,  the  young  man  of  "prospects"  whom 
she  liked  but  did  not  love.  This  refusal  was  against  her 
mother's  wishes,  but  was  supported  by  the  stout  spirit  of 
her  great-aunt  over  at  Dunbarton,  who  believed  in  marry- 
ing for  love.  And  thus  Molly  Wood,  with  something  of 
the  spirit  of  her  great  colonial  ancestress,  Molly  Stark,  was 
trying  to  be  independent  and  self-supporting,  and  had 
pledged  herself  to  become  the  first  teacher  in  the  new 
Bear  Creek  schoolhouse  in  far-off  Wyoming. 

It  was  at  sunrise,  that,  eternally  lurching  along  across 
the  alkali,  the  stage  reached  the  edge  of  a  river.  The 
driver  had  had  on  the  box  with  him,  as  a  companion,  only  a 
bottle,  which  had  proved  too  strong  for  him.  As  the  stage 
descended  into  the  river  for  fording,  it  lurched  over  to  one 
side,  two  wheels  sank  down  over  an  edge,  and  the  seat  on 
which  Miss  Molly  Wood  sat  careened  so  threateningly  that  the 
young  woman  put  her  head  out  of  the  stage  door  and  tremu- 
lously asked  if  anything  was  wrong.  But  the  driver  was  too 
much  absorbed  with  profanity  and  the  lash  to  notice  her. 
However,  a  tall  rider  came  close  against  the  buried  axles, 
and  took  the  young  woman  out  of  the  stage  upon  his  horse 
so  suddenly  that  she  screamed.  There  were  splashes,  she 
saw  a  rolling  flood,  and  then  she  was  lifted  down  upon  the 
bank.  The  rider  gave  a  word  of  encouragement,  insisted 
on  the  stage-driver's  throwing  away  his  bottle,  and,  swinging 
into  his  saddle,  was  off  before  the  rescued  woman  could 
frame  her  belated  thanks.  Her  rescuer  was  the  Virginian ; 
and  later  in  the  season  he  came  alone  to  the  same  crossing 
of  the  river,  which  now  was  a  bed  of  dry  sand,  with  here 
and  there  a  pool.  Regarding  the  extremely  safe  channel, 


"The  Virginian"  221 

where  the  rushing  river  formerly  had  been,  he  meditatively 
said :  "  She  cert'nly  wouldn't  need  to  grip  me  so  close  this 
mawnin'.  I  reckon  it  will  mightily  astonish  her  when  I  tell 
her  how  harmless  the  torrent  is  lookin'."  Passing  a  slice  of 
bread  covered  with  sardines  to  his  pony  he  continued  : 
"You're  a  plumb  pie-biter,  you  Monte."  Monte  rubbed 
his  nose  on  his  master's  shoulder.  "  I  wouldn't  trust  you 
with  berries  and  cream.  No,  seh ;  not  though  yu'  did 
rescue  a  drownin'  lady." 

The  dance  at  the  barbecue,  given  by  the  Swinton  Brothers 
at  their  Goose  Egg  ranch  on  Bear  Creek,  was  particularly 
notable  for  the  way  in  which  Miss  Molly  Wood  refused  to 
waltz  with  the  Virginian  without  an  introduction,  although 
she  knew  him  perfectly  well  as  the  man  who  had  rescued  her 
from  her  plight  in  the  stage.  But  the  Virginian,  not  to  be 
so  easily  defeated,  begged  her  pardon,  and,  bringing  up  a 
common  friend,  asked  to  be  presented  in  due  form.  It  was 
while  she  was  dancing  with  some  of  the  married  men  that 
the  Virginian,  with  his  characteristic  love  of  a  practical 
joke,  exchanged  the  offspring  of  these  same  men,  and  did 
it  so  skillfully  that  the  fathers  and  mothers  reached  home 
without  recognizing  the  exchange  and  the  joke.  His 
finesse  in  diverting  responsibility  and  his  later  confession 
at  the  most  opportune  time  are  very  happily  portrayed  by 
Mr.  Wister. 

Before  the  beginning  of  festivities  that  evening,  while 
some  of  the  cowboys,  including  Chalkeye,  Nebrasky, 
Trampas,  and  Honey  Wiggin,  were  stretched  on  the  ground 
about  the  steer  that  was  being  roasted  whole,  some  rather 
uncomplimentary  allusions  were  made  to  the  new  school- 
teacher, Miss  Molly  Wood,  by  Trampas.  Suddenly  he  found 
the  Virginian  standing  over  him  in  a  threatening  attitude ; 


222         Provincial  Types  in  the  Far  West 

and  when  ordered  by  the  former  to  stand  up  and  confess 
himself  a  liar,  Trampas  sullenly  obeyed,  under  the  domi- 
nating power  of  the  Virginian's  eyes.  "  The  eye  of  a  man 
is  the  prince  of  deadly  weapons."  Then  the  Virginian 
spoke  :  "  Keep  a-standin*  still.  I  ain'  going  to  trouble  yu' 
long.  In  admittin'  yourself  to  be  a  liar  you  have  spoke  God's 
truth  for  onced.  Honey  Wiggin,  you  and  me  and  the  boys 
have  hit  town  too  frequent  for  any  of  us  to  play  Sunday  on 
the  balance  of  the  gang."  The  Virginian  paused  to  observe 
the  effect  of  his  action  and  words  on  "  Public  Opinion, 
seated  around  in  carefully  inexpressive  attention,"  and  then 
modestly  continued :  "  We  ain't  a  Christian  outfit  a  little 
bit,  and  maybe  we  have  most  forgotten  what  decency  feels 
like.  But  I  reckon  we  haven't  plumb  forgot  what  it  means." 

An  illustration  of  the  Virginian's  mental  independence, 
which  prevented  the  young  school-teacher  from  playing 
constantly  the  part  of  patron  and  superior,  was  seen  in 
his  characteristic  discussion  of  the  idea  of  equality  :  "  I'll 
tell  you  what,  equality  is  a  great  big  bluff.  It's  easy  called. 
...  I  look  around  and  I  see  folks  movin'  up  or  movin' 
down,  winners  or  losers  everywhere.  All  luck,  of  course. 
But  since  folks  can  be  born  that  different  in  their  luck, 
where's  your  equality?  No,  seh  !  call  your  failure  luck,  or 
call  it  laziness,  wander  around  the  words,  prospect  all  yu' 
mind  to,  and  yu'll  come  out  the  same  old  trail  of  inequality." 
Pausing  a  moment,  and  looking  at  the  woman  he  intended 
to  win  by  his  love,  he  added :  "  Some  holds  four  aces,  and 
some  holds  nothin',  and  some  poor  fello'  gets  the  aces  and 
no  show  to  play  'em;  but  a  man  has  got  to  prove  himself 
my  equal  before  I'll  believe  him." 

The  Judge's  guest  —  the  narrator  of  the  story  —  had  ex- 
pected, on  his  return  visit  from  the  East,  to  be  riding  soon 


"  The  Virginian  "  223 

with  the  Virginian  among  "  the  clean  hills  of  Sunk  Creek." 
What  was  his  surprise  and  gratification,  as  he  walked  into 
Colonel  Cyrus  Jones's  eating  palace  in  Omaha,  to  see  sitting 
at  a  table,  alone,  the  Virginian  himself.  The  palace  itself 
was  a  curious  phase  in  the  development  of  Western  archi- 
tecture. "  It  was  a  shell  of  wood,  painted  with  golden  em- 
blems, —  the  steamboat,  the  eagle,  the  Yosemite,  —  and  a 
live  bear  ate  gratuities  at  its  entrance.  Weather  permitting, 
it  opened  upon  the  world  as  a  stage  upon  the  audience. 
You  sat  in  Omaha's  whole  sight  and  dined,  while  Omaha's 
dust  came  and  settled  upon  the  refreshments.  It  is  gone 
the  way  of  the  Indian  and  the  buffalo,  for  the  West  is  grow- 
ing old.  You  should  have  seen  the  palace  and  sat  there. 
In  front  of  you  passed  rainbows  of  men,  —  Chinese,  Indian 
chiefs,  Africans,  General  Miles,  younger  sons,  Austrian  nobil- 
ity, wide  females  in  pink.  Our  continent  drained  prismati- 
cally  through  Omaha  once." 

As  the  narrator  was  passing,  there  came  floating  out  from 
"  the  palace "  the  language  of  Colonel  Cyrus  Jones.  He 
stood  at  the  rear  of  his  palace  in  gray  flowery  mustaches 
and  a  Confederate  uniform,  and  announced  the  wishes  of  the 
guests  to  the  cook  through  a  hole.  After  the  Virginian's 
characteristically  undemonstrative  welcome  of  the  Judge's 
guest,  who  had  entered  the  restaurant  to  be  "  fanned  "  by 
the  breezy  vocabulary  of  the  Colonel,  the  cow-puncher 
observed,  as  he  looked  about  on  the  other  guests  with  critical 
attention,  that  "Them  that  comes  hyeh  don't  eat.  They 
feed.  ...  D'  yu'  reckon  they  find  joyful  di-gestion  in  this 
swallo'-an'-get-out  trough  ?  "  To  his  friend's  inquiry  as  to  what 
he  was  in  such  a  place  for,  he  philosophically  remarked  :  "  Oh, 
pshaw !  When  yu'  can't  have  what  you  choose,  yu'  just 
choose  what  you  have."  And  he  took  the  bill  of  fare. 


224        Provincial  Types  in  the  Far  West 

The  Virginian  noticed  on  the  elaborately  French  menu  a 
special  item,  Frogs1  legs  a  la  Delmonico ;  and  he  asked  his 
friend  rather  incredulously  if  they  were  "  true  anywheres." 
And  on  its  being  explained  that  Delmonico  in  New  York 
and  Augustin  in  Philadelphia  actually  made  a  specialty  of 
frogs'  legs,  the  Virginian  said,  with  an  engaging  smile, 
"  There's  not  a  little  bit  o'  use  in  lyin'  to  me  this  mawnin'. 
I  ain't  goin'  to  awdeh  anything's  laigs."  The  Judge's  guest, 
however,  was  in  an  experimental  mood ;  and,  curious  to  see 
how  Colonel  Cyrus  Jones  would  handle  the  unwonted  order, 
he  asked  for  frogs'  legs.  "'Wants  frogs'  legs,  does  he?' 
shouted  Colonel  Cyrus  Jones.  He  fixed  his  eye  upon  me, 
and  it  narrowed  to  a  slit.  '  Too  many  brain  workers  break- 
fasting before  yu'  came  in,  professor,'  said  he.  '  Missionary 
ate  the  last  leg  off  me  just  now.  Brown  the  wheat ! '  he 
commanded,  through  the  hole  to  the  cook,  for  some  one 
had  ordered  hot  cakes. 

"'I'll  have  fried  aiggs,'  said  the  Virginian.  'Cooked 
both  sides.' 

" '  White  wings  ! '  sang  the  Colonel  through  the  hole. 
'Let  'em  fly  up  and  down.' 

" '  Coffee  an'  no  milk,'  said  the  Virginian. 

" '  Draw  one  in  the  dark  ! '  the  Colonel  roared. 

" '  And  beefsteak,  rare.' 

" '  One  slaughter  in  the  pan,  and  let  the  blood  drip  !  * 

" '  I  should  like  a  glass  of  water,  please,'  said  I.  The 
Colonel  threw  me  a  look  of  pity.  '  One  Missouri  and  ice  for 
the  professor ! '  he  said."  The  process  of  ordering  was 
ended,  and  the  Virginian's  only  comment  was,  as  he  looked 
at  the  Colonel,  "That  fellow's  a  right  live  man."  The 
"  Colonel "  proved  to  be  Scipio  le  Moyne,  who  later  served 
the  Virginian  in  a  crisis  as  the  expert  broiler  of  frogs.  Dur- 


"The  Virginian"  225 

ing  breakfast  the  Virginian's  curiosity  concerning  Delmonico 
and  frogs'  legs  returned,  and  his  companion  was  able  to  give 
him  a  good  deal  of  information  about  the  career  of  Lorenzo 
Delmonico,  which  the  Virginian  later  put  to  such  brilliant  use 
in  his  competing  frog  story.  "Mighty  inter-estin',"  he  said — 
"  mighty.  He  could  just  take  little  old  o'rn'ry  frawgs,  and 
dandy  'em  up  to  suit  the  bloods.  Mighty  inter-estin'.  I 
expaict,  though,  his  cookin'  would  give  an  outraiged  stomach 
to  a  plain-raised  man." 

Despite  the  modesty  of  the  Virginian,  it  developed  that  he 
had  been  promoted  by  Judge  Henry,  his  employer,  to  be 
deputy  foreman,  and  was  on  his  way  to  Chicago  with  twenty 
carloads  of  steers  and  half  a  dozen  cowboys.  And  one  of 
his  chief  responsibilities  lay  in  the  necessity  of  getting  these 
cowboys  safely  back  to  the  Judge's  ranch  in  Wyoming,  past 
all  the  temptations  of  cities,  and  in  spite  of  the  malevolent 
maneuvers  of  Trampas,  his  irreconcilable  enemy.  The  cow- 
boys beside  the  railway  track  in  Omaha  were  indulging  in  a 
game  of  poker,  while  the  Virginian,  sitting  with  his  friend  on 
the  top  of  a  car,  was  contemplating  the  sandy  shallows  of 
the  Platte.  When  asked  by  his  friend  why  he  didn't  take  a 
hand  in  the  game,  the  Virginian  contemptuously  replied, 
"Poker?  With  them  kittens?"  He  suddenly  took  out  of 
his  pocket  a  copy  of  "  Kenilworth  "  that  Miss  Molly  Wood 
had  let  him  have,  and  turning  the  volume  over  slowly  in  his 
hand  without  opening  it,  he  remarked  reflectively,  "  Queen 
Elizabeth  would  have  played  a  mighty  pow'ful  game." 
"  Poker  ?  "  said  his  friend.  "  Yes,  seh.  Do  you  expaict  Europe 
has  got  any  queen  equal  to  her  at  present?  "  When  doubt 
was  expressed,  the  Virginian  gave  one  of  his  historical  judg- 
ments in  characteristic  form.  "  Victoria  'd  get  pretty  nigh 
slain  sliding  chips  out  agaynst  Elizabeth.  Only,  mos'  prob'ly 
Q 


226        Provincial  Types  in  the  Far  West 

Victoria  she'd  insist  on  a  half-cent  limit.  You  have  read 
this  hyeh  '  Kenilworth '  ?  Well,  deal  Elizabeth  ace  high,  an' 
she  could  scare  Robert  Dudley,  with  a  full  house,  plumb  out 
o'  the  bettin'."  On  the  unquestioning  assent  of  his  com- 
panion, the  Virginian  continued,  "And  if  Essex's  play  got 
next  her  too  near,  I  reckon  she'd  have  stacked  the  cyards. 
Say,  d'yu'  remember  Shakespeare's  fat  man?" 

An  answer  in  the  affirmative  led  the  Virginian  to  give  his 
candid  judgment  on  Shakespeare  and  his  literary  work,  and 
to  express  his  regret  that  the  great  dramatist  was  ignorant 
of  the  possibilities  of  poker.  "Ain't  that  grand?  Why, he 
makes  men  talk  the  way  they  do  in  life.  I  reckon  he  couldn't 
get  printed  to-day.  It's  a  right  down  shame  Shakespeare 
couldn't  know  about  poker.  He'd  have  had  Falstaff  playing 
all  day  at  that  Tearsheet  outfit.  And  the  Prince  would  have 
beat  him."  The  Virginian  felt  sure,  too,  that  Falstaff  would 
have  had  enough  brains  to  play  whist.  "You  can  play 
whist  with  your  brains  —  brains  and  cyards.  Now,  cyards 
are  only  one  o'  the  manifestations  of  poker  in  this  hyeh 
world.  One  o'  the  shapes  yu'  fool  with  it  in  when  the  day's 
work  is  oveh.  If  a  man  is  built  like  that  Prince  boy  was 
built  (and  it's  away  down  deep  beyond  brains),  he'll  play 
winnin'  poker  with  whatever  hand  he's  holdin'  when  the 
trouble  begins.  Maybe  it  will  be  a  mean,  triflin'  army,  or  an 
empty  six-shooter,  or  a  lame  hawss,  or  maybe  just  nothm' 
but  his  natural  countenance.  'Most  any  old  thing  will  do  for 
a  fello'  like  that  Prince  boy  to  play  poker  with." 

Leaving  the  Virginian  with  his  uncertain  cowboys  and  his 
two  trains  of  steers  bound  for  Chicago,  Judge  Henry's  pro- 
spective guest,  on  his  autumn  holiday,  was  making  his  way 
through  the  Black  Hills  in  a  saddle  ;  but  on  account  of  the 
steady  downpour  he  was  only  too  glad  to  change  to  a  seat 


"  The  Virginian  "  227 

in  the  stage.  As  he  climbed  in  over  the  wheel  somebody 
on  the  inside  considerately  inquired,  "Six  legs  inside  this 
jerky  to-night?"  The  asker  of  the  question  was  none  other 
-  than  "  Colonel "  Cyrus  Jones,  formerly  of  the  eating  palace  in 
Omaha,  whose  conversational  power  was  wholly  undimin- 
ished.  He  gave  an  early  introduction  of  himself :  "  Scipio 
le  Moyne,  from  Gallipolice,  Ohio.  The  eldest  of  us  always 
gets  called  Scipio.  It's  French.  But  us  folks  have  been 
white  for  a  hundred  years."  Scipio  was  limber  and  light- 
muscled,  and  skillfully  avoided  bruises  as  the  "jerky  "  swayed 
or  plunged.  "  He  had  a  strange,  long,  jocular  nose,  very 
wary-looking,  and  a  bleached  blue  eye."  "Shorty,"  the 
third  occupant  of  the  stage,  was  what  his  name  implied,  and 
the  joltings  of  the  jerky  seemed  to  hurt  him  almost  every 
time.  "  He  was  light-haired  and  mild.  Think  of  a  yellow 
dog  that  is  lost,  and  fancies  each  newcomer  in  sight  is  going 
to  turn  out  his  master,  and  you  will  have  Shorty." 

The  intimacy  of  the  three  travelers  was  suddenly  deep- 
ened by  their  unavailing  efforts  to  catch  the  Northern  Pacific 
train  at  Medora.  It  had  changed  its  schedule  time.  Scipio 
and  Shorty  shot  from  the  jerky  in  advance  of  the  Judge's 
guest,  who  was  encumbered  by  a  valise.  They  dashed 
through  sand  and  "  knee-high  grease  wood  "  in  their  race 
for  the  train,  a  piece  of  stray  wire  springing  up  and  clutch- 
ing the  carrier  of  the  valise,  and  tin  cans  spinning  from 
under  his  feet.  The  loss  of  the  train  meant  to  them  a  loss 
of  twenty-four  hours;  but  despite  their  desperate  racing 
and  shouting  and  waving  of  hats  they  were  all  left  behind. 
Scipio,  as  he  saw  the  train  insultingly  move  off,  dropped 
philosophically  into  a  walk ;  but  the  other  two,  overtaking 
him,  ran  madly  forward  to  the  empty  track. 

The  carrier  of  the  valise  kicked  it  and  then  sat  on  it, 


228         Provincial  Types  in  the  Far  West 

speechless  with  wrath;  Shorty  gave  way  to  uncontrollable 
lament,  detailing  all  his  woes  to  the  unsympathetic  air ;  but 
Scipio,  the  superior,  narrowed  his  bleached  blue  eyes  to 
slits,  as  he  watched  the  rear  car  fading  to  westward,  and  ad- 
dressed the  vanishing  train  :  "  Think  you've  got  me  left, 
do  yu'?  Just  because  yu'  ride  through  this  country  on  a 
rail,  do  yu'  claim  yu'  can  find  your  way  around?  I  could 
take  yu'  out  ten  yards  in  the  brush  and  lose  yu'  in  ten  sec- 
onds, you  spangle-roofed  hobo  !  Leave  me  behind  !  you 
recent  blanket-mortgage  yearlin'  !  You  plush-lined,  nickel- 
plated,  whistlin'  wash  room,  d'yu'  figure  I  can't  go  East 
just  as  soon  as  West?  Or  I'll  stay  right  here  if  it  suits  me, 
yu'  dude-inhabited  hot-box  !  "  Scipio's  epithets  increased 
in  volume  and  emphasis  till  they  became  unprintable,  and 
then  he  gradually  descended  from  his  climax  to  express 
sympathy  with  the  train  for  not  having  a  mother. 

To  the  immense  surprise  and  pleasure  of  Judge  Henry's 
guest  a  slow,  drawling  Southern  voice,  the  voice  of  the  Vir- 
ginian, suddenly  expressed  his  sorrow  over  his  friend's  loss 
of  breath  in  pursuit  of  the  train,  and  inquired  if  the  valise 
was  suffering  any.  There  sat  the  Virginian,  with  a  news- 
paper, on  the  rear  platform  of  a  caboose  attached  to  a 
freight  train  westward  bound.  His  cowboys  were  inside, 
and  he  himself  carried  the  air  of  a  man  for  whom  things 
were  "going  smooth."  He  had  evidently  delivered  his 
steers  in  Chicago  and  was  returning  to  Sunk  Creek  ranch. 
He  turned  to  Scipio  with  the  remark  that  "these  hyeh 
steam  cyars  make  a  man's  language  mighty  nigh  as  speedy 
as  his  travel."  "So  yu'  heard  me  speakin'  to  the  express," 
said  Scipio.  "  Well,  I  guess,  sometimes  I  —  See  here,"  he 
exclaimed,  under  the  grave  scrutiny  of  the  Virginian,  "  I 
may  have  talked  some,  but  I  walked  a  whole  lot.  You  didn't 


"  The  Virginian  "  229 

catch  me  squandering  no  speed."  The  Virginian  remarked 
that  he  had  noticed  that  in  Scipio's  case  thinking  came 
quicker  than  running ;  whereupon  Scipio  observed  :  "  Oh, 
I  could  tell  yu'd  been  enjoyin'  us  !  Observin'  somebody 
else's  scrape  always  kind  o'  rests  me  too.  Maybe  you're  a 
philosopher,  but  maybe  there's  a  pair  of  us  drawd  in  this  deal." 

From  Scipio's  legs  the  Virginian  judged  that  the  former 
was  used  to  the  saddle,  but  from  his  hands  he  inferred  that 
he  had  not  been  roping  steers  very  recently.  And  he  sud- 
denly asked,  "  Been  cookin'  or  something?  "  To  which  the 
spirited  Scipio  retorted  :  "  Say,  tell  my  future  some  now. 
Draw  a  conclusion  from  my  mouth."  "  I'm  right  dis- 
tressed," returned  the  Southerner,  "we've  not  a  drop  in 
the  outfit."  "  Oh,  drink  with  me  uptown !  "  cried  the  hos- 
pitable Scipio,  —  "  I'm  pleased  to  death  with  yu'."  Glanc- 
ing where  the  saloons  stood  behind  the  station,  the  Virginian 
shook  his  head ;  and  Scipio  plaintively  insisted  :  "  Why,  it 
ain't  a  bit  far  to  whisky  from  here !  Step  down,  now. 
Scipio  le  Moyne's  my  name.  Yes,  you're  lookin'  for  my 
brass  ear-rings.  But  there  ain't  no  ear-rings  on  me.  I've 
been  white  for  a  hundred  years.  Step  down.  I've  a  forty- 
dollar  thirst."  The  Virginian's  only  response  was  the  be- 
ginning of  a  remark  about  Scipio's  "being  white,"  when 
from  the  inside  of  the  caboose  came  the  howled-out  chorus 
of  a  cowboy  song,  and  the  train  began  to  move  off.  Sud- 
denly the  Virginian  stood  up  and  offered  to  this  new-found 
acquaintance  a  forty-dollar  job  if  he  would  save  "  that  thirst." 
"  Why,  you're  talkin'  business  ! "  cried  Scipio,  and  leaped 
aboard. 

As  the  Virginian  and  Scipio  le  Moyne  continued  in  dia- 
logue, one  of  the  group  on  the  inside  came  out  on  the 
platform  of  the  caboose,  slamming  the  door  behind  him. 


230         Provincial  Types  in  the  Far  West 

"  H 1 !  "  cried  the  man,  at  sight  of  the  distant  town.    "  I 

told  you,"  addressing  the  Virginian  threateningly,  "  I  told 
you  I  was  going  to  get  a  bottle  here."  "  Have  your  bottle, 
then,"  said  the  deputy  foreman,  and  kicked  him  off  into 
Dakota.  The  Virginian's  pistol  followed  the  direction  of 
his  boot ;  so  that  the  man  sat  quietly  in  Dakota,  watching 
the  train  moving  on  into  Montana,  and  making  no  objection. 
At  a  safe  distance,  he  rose  and  made  his  way  toward  the 
region  of  the  saloons.  It  was  the  cook  that  had  thus  sud- 
denly parted  company  with  the  Virginian's  "outfit,"  and  the 
Virginian  could  not  forego  expressing  his  disgust  as  he  hol- 
stered  his  pistol.  "  This  is  the  only  step  I  have  had  to  take 
this  whole  trip  ; "  and  then  he  added  regretfully,  "  So  nyeh 
back  home  ! " 

Scipio's  interest  in  his  new-found  employer  was  so  much 
intensified  by  this  incident  that  he  asked  Judge  Henry's 
guest  if  he  had  known  the  Virginian  long.  Being  answered 
"  Fairly,"  Scipio  looked  with  admiration  at  the  Virginian's 
back,  and  spoke  judicially,  "  Well,  start  awful  early  when 
yu'  go  to  fool  with  him,  or  he'll  make  you  feel  onpunctual." 
The  Southerner,  tilting  his  head  toward  the  noise  in  the 
caboose,  again  expressed  his  regret  that,  after  having  the 
cow-punchers  under  his  control  for  almost  three  thousand 
miles,  he  should  now  have  been  compelled  to  part  with  one 
of  them.  "  I  had  the  boys  plumb  contented.  Away  along 
as  far  as  Saynt  Paul  I  had  them  reconciled  to  my  authority. 
Then  this  news  about  gold  had  to  strike  us."  "  And  they're 
a-dreamin'  nuggets  and  Parisian  bowleyvards,"  sympatheti- 
cally suggested  Scipio.  The  Virginian  smiled  his  gratitude, 
and,  regaining  his  usual  relish  of  things,  continued  in  the  line 
of  Scipio's  suggestion,  "  Fortune  is  shinin'  bright  and  blindin' 
to  their  delicate  young  eyes." 


"The  Virginian" 

The  Virginian  asserted  his  belief  that  all  his  cowboys 
would  return  with  him  to  Sunk  Creek,  "accordin'  to  the 
Judge's  awdehs."  "Never  a  calf  of  them  will  desert  to 
Rawhide,  for  all  their  dangerousness.  .  .  .  Only  one  is  left 
now  that  don't  sing."  Turning  to  Scipio  le  Moyne,  he  re- 
marked that  the  man  he  had  parted  with  was  the  cook, 
"  and  I  will  ask  yu'  to  replace  him,  Colonel."  At  the  word 
"colonel"  Scipio  opened  his  mouth  in  astonishment. 
"  Colonel !  Say  !  "  He  stared  at  the  Virginian  and  asked 
him  if  he  had  met  him  at  "  the  palace  "  in  Omaha.  "  Not 
exackly  met,"  replied  the  Southerner.  "  I  was  praisent  one 
mawnin'  las'  month  when  this  gentleman  awdehed  frawgs' 
laigs." 

Hereupon  the  surprised  but  versatile  Scipio,  alias  the 
"Colonel,"  explained  at  length  his  difficult  position  in 
Omaha.  "  Sakes  and  saints,  but  that  was  a  mean  position  ! 
...  I  had  to  tell  all  comers  anything  all  day.  Stand  up 
and  jump  language  hot  off  my  brain  at  'em.  And  the  pay 
don't  near  compensate  for  the  drain  on  the  system.  I  don't 
care  how  good  a  man  is,  you  let  him  keep  a-tappin'  his 
presence  of  mind  right  along,  without  taking  a  lay-off,  and 
you'll  have  him  sick.  Yes,  sir.  You'll  hit  his  nerves.  So  I 
told  them  they  could  hire  some  fresh  man,  for  I  was  goin' 
back  to  punch  cattle  or  fight  Indians,  or  take  a  rest  some- 
how, for  I  didn't  propose  to  get  jaded,  and  me  only  twenty- 
five  years  old." 

Scipio  confessed  that  the  regular  Colonel  Cyrus  Jones 
had  long  ago  departed  this  life,  but  because  of  "  the  palace's  " 
large  business  the  management  continued  a  live  bear  on  the 
outside  and  a  pretended  "Colonel"  within.  "And  it's  a 
turruble  mean  position.  Course  I'll  cook  for  yu'.  Yu've 
a  dandy  memory  for  faces."  "  I  wasn't  quite  convinced  till 


232        Provincial  Types  in  the  Far  West 

I  kicked  him  off,  and  you  gave  that  shut  to  your  eyes  again," 
explained  the  Virginian. 

The  appearance  at  the  door  of  the  caboose  of  Trampas, 
the  Virginian's  scheming  enemy,  and  his  inquiry  for  Schoff- 
ner,  the  cook,  whom  the  deputy  foreman  had  kicked  from 
the  platform,  called  out  the  reply  of  the  Southerner,  "  I 
expaict  he'll  have  got  his  bottle  by  now,  Trampas."  Tram- 
pas,  looking  from  one  to  another  on  the  platform,  asked 
curiously,  "Didn't  he  say  he  was  coming  back?"  "He 
reminded  me,"  said  the  Virginian,  "  he  was  going  for  a 
bottle,  and  afteh  that  he  didn't  wait  to  say  a  thing."  When 
Trampas  insisted  that  Schoffner  had  told  him  he  was  coming 
back,  the  Southerner,  with  his  quiet  and  characteristic 
humor,  replied  :  "  I  don't  reckon  he  has  come,  not  without 
he  dumb  up  ahaid  somewhere.  An'  I  mus'  say,  when  he 
got  off  he  didn't  look  like  a  man  does  when  he  has  the 
intention  o'  returnin'."  And  after  another  unsatisfactory 
question  Trampas  abruptly  returned  to  the  inside  of  the 
caboose. 

"Is  he  the  member  who  don't  sing?"  asked  the  pene- 
trating Scipio.  "  That's  the  specimen,"  answered  the  South- 
erner. "  He  don't  seem  musical  in  the  face,"  said  Scipio. 
"Pshaw  !  "  returned  the  Virginian.  "Why,  you  surely  ain't 
the  man  to  mind  ugly  mugs  —  when  they're  hollow  !  "  After 
the  Virginian  himself  had  retreated  into  the  caboose,  Scipio 
inquired  of  Judge  Henry's  guest  his  opinion  as  to  whether 
the  Virginian  would  succeed  in  getting  his  cowboys  back  to 
Sunk  Creek.  To  the  answer  that  the  Southerner  had  said 
he  would,  and  that  he  was  a  man  with  the  "  courage  of  his 
convictions,"  Scipio  skeptically  exclaimed  :  "  That  ain't  near 
courage  enough  to  have  !  There's  times  in  life  when  a  man 
has  got  to  have  courage  without  convictions  —  without  them 


cc  The  Virginian  "  233 

—  or  he  is  no  good.  Now  your  friend  is  that  deep  consti- 
tooted  that  you  don't  know  and  I  don't  know  what  he's 
thinkin'  about  all  this."  Scipio  le  Moyne,  as  a  type  of  the 
breezy,  slangy,  widely  experienced  Westerner,  who  is  shrewdly 
observant,  swift  in  his  judgments  of  human  nature  and  human 
motive,  and  humorously  versatile  in  emergencies,  is  one  of 
the  best-drawn  and  most  interesting  figures  in  the  book ;  and 
we  are  not  surprised  that  the  Virginian  relishes  the  originality 
and  imaginative  sympathy  of  the  man. 

The  Virginian's  quiet  mastery  of  men  as  illustrated  in  his 
getting  his  cowboys  back  from  Chicago  despite  the  temp- 
tations of  cities,  the  appeal  made  to  their  greediness  by  the 
rumors  of  gold  at  Rawhide,  and  the  malevolent  influence  of 
Trampas,  —  the  Virginian's  implacable  enemy,  —  recalls  the 
elaborate  and  sublimely  humorous  "  frawg  "  story,  which  the 
Virginian  found  it  necessary  to  tell  to  beat  Trampas  and  his 
partisans  at  their  own  malicious  game  of  ridicule.  That  story 
meant  all  the  difference  between  success  and  failure  for  the 
Virginian  in  his  important  trip  to  the  East  as  deputy  fore- 
man for  Judge  Henry,  and  it  was  effective  enough  to  ac- 
complish its  purpose  of  keeping  the  men  together  till  they 
reached  Sunk  Creek. 

In  discussing  theology  and  parsons  with  Judge  Henry's 
guest,  the  Virginian  had  certain  original  and  unhackneyed 
points  of  view  that  showed  the  earnest  and  rational  side  of 
the  man.  He  had  inquired  as  to  the  number  of  religions 
in  the  world,  and  being  told  there  were  at  least  fifteen  that 
were  supposed  to  have  the  same  God  as  an  object  of  worship, 
the  Virginian  rather  skeptically  exclaimed :  "  One  God  and 
fifteen  religions.  That's  a  right  smart  of  religions  for  just 
one  God."  The  laugh  on  the  narrator's  part  at  this  com- 
ment led  the  Virginian  to  remark  in  addition :  "  Do  you 


234        Provincial  Types  in  the  Far  West 

think  they  ought  to  be  fifteen  varieties  of  good  people? 
.  .  .  There  ain't  fifteen.  There  ain't  two.  There's  one 
kind.  And  when  I  meet  it  I  respect  it.  It  is  not  praying 
nor  preaching  that  has  ever  caught  me  and  made  me 
ashamed  of  myself,  but  one  or  two  people  I  have  knowed 
that  never  said  a  superior  word  to  me.  They  thought  more 
o'  me  than  I  deserved,  and  that  made  me  behave  better 
than  I  naturally  wanted  to.  ...  And  if  ever  I  was  to  have 
a  son  or  somebody  I  set  store  by,  I  would  wish  their  lot  to 
be  to  know  one  or  two  good  folks  mighty  well  —  men  or 
women  —  women  preferred."  "As  for  parsons,"  he  con- 
tinued with  a  somewhat  deprecating  gesture,  "I  reckon 
some  parsons  have  a  right  to  tell  yu'  to  be  good.  The 
bishop  of  this  hyeh  Territory  has  a  right.  But  I'll  tell  yu' 
this:  a  middlin'  doctor  is  a  pore  thing,  and  a  middlin' 
lawyer  is  a  pore  thing ;  but  keep  me  from  a  middlin'  man 
of  God."  Such  a  "  middlin'  man  of  God  "  the  Virginian 
found  in  Dr.  MacBride,  the  missionary  to  the  cowboys, 
whom  he  wickedly  persuaded  to  spend  most  of  the  night  in 
prayer  and  spiritual  counsel  for  the  Virginian's  sin-stricken 
soul. 

His  promotion  to  be  foreman  of  Judge  Henry's  ranch 
for  a  long  time  prevented  the  Virginian  from  riding  over  to 
Bear  Creek  to  see  Miss  Molly  Wood,  the  school-teacher ;  and 
finally,  at  the  end  of  the  winter,  he  was  driven  to  write  her 
a  letter  which  illustrated,  beside  his  devotion  to  her,  his 
improvement  in  spelling  and  penmanship,  to  which  he  had 
given  himself  in  his  leisure  time  during  the  winter.  After 
speaking  of  the  early  spring,  he  mentions  the  fact  that 
"where  the  sun  gets  a  chance  to  hit  the  earth  strong  all 
day  it  is  green  and  has  flowers  too,  a  good  many.  You  can 
see  them  bob  and  mix  together  in  the  wind."  He  also  tells 


^gillftf 


If1 


il 


A 


By  his  side  the  girl  walking  and  cheering  him  forward. 

Page  332. 
COPYRIGHT  BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


"  The  Virginian  "  235 

his  sweetheart  what  he  has  been  reading,  and  his  literary 
judgments  are  sincere  and  original  if  not  conventional :  "  I 
have  read  that  play  '  Othello.'  No  man  should  write  down 
such  a  thing.  Do  you  know  if  it  is  true  ?  I  have  seen  one 
worse  affair  down  in  Arizona.  He  killed  his  little  child  as 
well  as  his  wife  but  such  things  should  not  be  put  down  in 
fine  language  for  the  public.  I  have  read  Romeo  and 
Juliet.  That  is  beautiful  language  but  Romeo  is  no  man. 
I  like  his  friend  Mercutio  that  gets  killed.  He  is  a  man. 
If  he  had  got  Juliet  there  would  have  been  no  foolishness 
and  trouble." 

One  part  of  the  letter  in  particular  brought  the  color  into 
the  teacher's  face  and  made  her  indignantly  exclaim,  "  The 
outrageous  wretch  ! "  It  was  the  part  about  Emily,  the 
hen  :  "  Did  I  ever  tell  you  about  a  hen  Emily  we  had  here  ? 
She  was  venturesome  to  an  extent  I  have  not  seen  in  other 
hens  only  she  had  poor  judgment  and  would  make  no  family 
ties.  She  would  keep  trying  to  get  interest  in  the  ties 
of  others  taking  charge  of  little  chicks  and  bantams  and 
turkeys  and  puppies  one  time,  and  she  thought  most  any- 
thing was  an  egg.  I  will  tell  you  about  her  sometime.  She 
died  without  family  ties  one  day  while  I  was  building  a 
house  for  her  to  teach  school  in."  It  was  an  allegory,  con- 
scious or  unconscious,  which  the  little  school-teacher  was 
swift  to  interpret. 

The  wounded  Virginian,  lying  beside  the  spring,  and  the 
heroic  little  descendant  of  Molly  Stark,  washing  away  the 
blood,  tearing  bandages,  and  loading  his  revolver,  make  two 
figures  of  surpassingly  dramatic  interest.  And  even  of  greater 
interest  are  they  as  he  leans  helplessly  on  his  horse  while 
she  supports  and  encourages  him  till  they  reach  her  own 
home  and  she  can  help  the  delirious  man  to  lie  down  on 


236        Provincial  Types  in  the  Far  West 

her  own  bed.  And  then  such  persistent  nursing,  such  tactful 
attention,  such  diversions  in  the  way  of  quiet  games  at  crib- 
bage  and  of  reading  aloud  to  the  convalescent !  Among  the 
delightful  things  in  the  book  is  the  unique  comment  of  the 
Virginian  on  Shakespeare  and  Browning.  He  had  apologized 
for  going  to  sleep  over  one  of  Jane  Austen's  novels  which  she 
had  read  to  him ;  he  said  by  way  of  excuse  that  he  thought 
he  could  keep  awake  if  she  read  him  "  something  that  was 
about  something,"  like  "  Henry  the  Fourth  "  for  instance. 
"  The  British  king  is  fighting,  and  there  is  his  son  the  prince. 
He  cert'nly  must  have  been  a  jim-dandy  boy  if  that  is  all  true. 
Only  he  would  go  around  town  with  a  mighty  triflin'  gang. 
They  sported  and  they  held  up  citizens.  And  his  father 
hated  his  traveling  with  trash  like  them.  It  was  right 
natural  —  the  boy  and  the  old  man  !  But  the  boy  showed 
himself  a  man  too.  He  killed  a  big  fighter  on  the  other 
side  who  was  another  jim-dandy  —  and  he  was  sorry  for 
having  it  to  do."  The  Virginian  grew  enthusiastic  in  his 
recital  of  Prince  Hal's  adventures,  and  continued  :  "  I  under- 
stand most  all  of  that.  There  was  a  fat  man  kept  every- 
body laughing.  He  was  awful  natural  too ;  except  yu'  don't 
commonly  meet  'em  so  fat.  But  the  prince  —  that  play 
is  bed-rock,  ma'am!"  Browning's  "How  They  Carried 
the  Good  News  from  Ghent  to  Aix  "  he  pronounced  good 
—  and  short;  while  an  "  Incident  of  the  French  Camp"  he 
thought  was  even  better,  only  "  the  last  part  drops."  The 
closing  stanza,  which  relates  how  the  wounded  boy,  having 
given  his  message  of  victory,  tells  Napoleon  that  he  is  not 
only  wounded  but  wounded  unto  death,  fails  to  meet  the 
approval  of  the  Virginian.  " '  Nay,  I'm  killed,  sire,' " 
drawled  the  Virginian  critically.  "Now  a  man  who  was 
man  enough  to  act  like  he  did,  yu'  see,  would  fall  dead 
without  mentioning  it." 


"  The  Virginian  "  237 

From  the  dream  and  joy  of  an  accepted  lover  to  the 
catching  and  hanging  of  cattle-thieves  (among  them  his 
once  intimate  friend,  Steve)  was  a  swift  and  painful  transi- 
tion for  the  Virginian ;  and  one  of  the  intensest  and  most 
dramatically  written  chapters  in  the  book  is  that  entitled 
"The  Cottonwoods,"  in  which  his  old  friend  Steve  and 
another  cattle-thief  are  portrayed  in  the  terrible  moments 
preceding  death.  In  contrasting  the  manner  of  death  of 
the  two  men,  the  Virginian  had  only  admiration  for  his  old 
friend  Steve.  "  Well,  he  took  dying  as  naturally  as  he  took 
living.  Like  a  man  should.  Like  I  hope  to.  ...  No 
play-acting  nor  last  words.  He  just  told  good-by  to  the 
boys  as  we  led  his  horse  under  the  limb."  In  the  Vir- 
ginian's view  failure  to  die  bravely  was  a  sort  of  "  treason  to 
the  brotherhood,"  and  forfeited  pity.  "  It  was  Steve's  per- 
fect bearing  that  had  caught  his  heart  so  that  he  forgot  even 
his  scorn  of  the  other  man." 

In  expressing  his  sympathy  for  the  weak-willed,  shallow, 
amiable,  and  easily  manipulated  Shorty,  who  fell  under  the 
malign  and  finally  fatal  influence  of  Trampas,  the  Virginian 
differentiated  the  conditions  of  the  West  and  the  East  in  a 
striking  and  discriminating  way  :  "  Now  back  East  you  can 
be  middling  and  get  along.  But  if  you  go  to  try  a  thing  on 
in  this  Western  country,  you've  got  to  do  it  well.  You've 
got  to  deal  cyards  well;  you've  got  to  steal  well ;  and  if  you 
claim  to  be  quick  with  your  gun  you  must  be  quick,  for 
you're  a  public  temptation,  and  some  man  will  not  resist 
trying  to  prove  he  is  the  quicker.  You  must  break  all  the 
Commandments  well  in  this  Western  country,  and  Shorty 
should  have  stayed  in  Brooklyn,  for  he  will  be  a  novice  his 
livelong  days."  And  the  Virginian's  judgment  and  prophecy 
were,  alas  !  too  true ;  for  a  little  later,  on  "  Superstition 


238         Provincial  Types  in  the  Far  West 

Trail,"  they  found  the  dead  "  novice "  stretched  by  his 
extinct  camp-fire,  "  with  his  wistful,  lost-dog  face  upward, 
and  his  thick  yellow  hair  unparted  as  it  had  always  been." 
He  had  been  murdered  from  behind,  and  the  treacherous, 
merciless  hand  of  Trampas  had  done  it.  Shorty  had  blun- 
dered once  too  often.  As  the  Virginian  said,  regretfully 
looking  down  on  the  dead  body,  "  There  was  no  natural 
harm  in  him,  but  you  must  do  a  thing  well  in  this  country." 
From  the  edge  of  a  tableland  the  Virginian  and  his  pro- 
spective bride  could  see  the  little  town  where  on  the  fol- 
lowing day  the  bishop  of  Wyoming  was  to  make  them  man 
and  wife.  "  There  lay  the  town  in  the  splendor  of  Wyoming 
space.  Around  it  spread  the  watered  fields  .  .  .  making 
squares  of  green  and  yellow  crops ;  and  the  town  was  but 
a  poor  rag  in  the  midst  of  this  quilted  harvest.  After  the 
fields  to  the  east,  the  tawny  plain  began ;  and  with  one  faint 
furrow  of  river  lining  its  undulations,  it  stretched  beyond 
sight.  But  west  of  the  town  rose  the  Bow  Leg  Mountains, 
cool  with  still  unmelted  snows,  and  their  dull  blue  gulfs  of 
pine.  From  three  canons  flowed  three  clear  forks  which 
began  the  river.  Their  confluence  was  above  the  town  a 
good  two  miles ;  it  looked  but  a  few  paces  from  up  here, 
while  each  side  the  river  straggled  the  margin  cottonwoods, 
like  thin  borders  along  a  garden  walk.  Over  all  this  map 
hung  silence  like  a  harmony,  tremendous  yet  serene."  No 
wonder  the  girl  from  the  little  Vermont  hills  whispered  to 
her  mountain  lover,  "  How  beautiful !  how  I  love  it !  But, 
oh,  how  big  it  is  !  "  She  leaned  against  him  an  instant,  as  if 
seeking  a  sort  of  shelter  in  his  splendid  strength ;  and  with 
closed  eyes  she  saw  a  little  village  street  in  Vermont,  and 
an  ivy  on  an  old  front  door,  and  her  mother  picking  some 
yellow  roses  from  a  bush  ! 


"  The  Virginian  "  239 

A  sudden  sound  made  her  open  her  eyes  quickly,  only  to 
see  her  lover  turned  in  his  saddle  and  reaching  for  his  pistol. 
A  rider,  who  was  a  stranger  to  her,  merely  nodded  to  the 
Virginian  as  he  passed  by ;  but  out  of  his  eyes  looked  "  five 
years  of  gathered  hate."  It  was  Trampas,  —  Trampas  who, 
courageous  with  whisky  and  baffled  hate,  was  to  give  the 
Virginian  till  sundown  to  get  out  of  town.  To  meet  this 
murderous  Trampas  and  run  the  imminent  risk  of  death  at 
his  hands  seemed  to  the  Virginian  the  only  course,  —  and 
this  on  the  eve  of  his  wedding  day,  the  consummation  of  his 
patient  and  expectant  love.  The  bishop  opposed  it,  and 
his  New  England  sweetheart  drew  back  in  horror  from  it, 
exclaiming,  "  If  you  do  this,  there  can  be  no  to-morrow  for 
you  and  me."  But  despite  it  all,  with  a  courage  and  self- 
sacrifice  that  were  sublime,  he  met  Trampas  as  the  sun 
dropped  behind  the  mountains,  —  those  mountains  to  which 
on  the  morrow  he  had  hoped  to  take  his  bride.  He  was 
standing  where  no  one  could  approach  him  except  from  the 
front,  for  he  remembered  the  fate  of  Shorty,  who  had  been 
shot  from  behind.  "  A  wind  seemed  to  blow  his  sleeve  off 
his  arm,  and  he  replied  to  it,  and  saw  Trampas  pitch  for- 
ward. He  saw  Trampas  raise  his  arm  from  the  ground  and 
fall  again,  and  lie  there,  this  time  still.  A  little  smoke  was 
rising  from  the  pistol  on  the  ground,  and  he  looked  at  his 
own,  and  saw  the  smoke  flowing  upward  out  of  it.  '  I  expect 
that's  all,'  he  said  aloud ; "  although,  as  he  drew  near  the 
treacherous  Trampas,  he  kept  him  covered  with  his  weapon. 
The  hand  on  the  ground  moved,  two  fingers  twitched,  and 
then  ceased  ;  it  was,  in  truth,  all  over.  As  he  stood  looking 
down  at  his  inveterate  enemy,  the  Virginian  remarked  aloud, 
"  I  told  her  it  would  not  be  me." 

The  New  England  conscience  of  Molly  Wood   battled 


240         Provincial  Types  in  the  Far  West 

with  love  and  capitulated ;  and  the  next  day  the  Virginian 
and  his  strenuously  won  bride  camped  together  beneath  the 
fragrant  pines  of  "  the  island,"  where  the  mountains  had 
long  before  stirred  the  real  poetry  of  the  Virginian's  virile 
but  imaginative  nature, — an  ideal  honeymoon  for  this  heroic 
horseman  of  the  plains  who,  so  typical  of  the  rough  condi- 
tions about  him,  had  yet  an  untainted  heart  of  true  romance. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

"THE  LUCK  OF  ROARING  CAMP  AND  OTHER  STORIES" 
BY  BRET  HARTE 

THE  year  that  "  The  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp  "  appeared, 
—  the  year  1871,  —  there  was  published  in  Blackwood's 
Magazine  in  Edinburgh,  a  criticism  of  the  short  stories 
contained  in  the  volume ;  and  as  from  the  beginning  Bret 
Harte  has  had  a  large  and  admiring  circle  of  readers  in 
Great  Britain,  who  have  regarded  him  as  typically  and 
uniquely  American  in  his  literary  work,  it  is  of  interest  to 
give  a  part  of  this  earliest  critical  opinion.  "  This  sketch 
['The  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp'],  slight^  and  brief  as  it  is, 
answers  the  highest  and  noblest  purpose  of  fiction.  There 
is  more  in  it  than  in  scores  of  three-volume  novels.  .  .  . 
Nothing  can  be  more  rude  or  less  lovely  than  the  life  here 
portrayed  —  nothing  can  be  more  simply  true  than  the 
narrative.  Here  nothing  is  hidden,  nothing  excluded,  no 
false  gloss  put  on ;  and  yet  the  heart  is  touched,  the  mind 
elevated  by  the  strange  tale.  There  is  neither  condemna- 
tion nor  horror  of  vice  in  it  —  vice  being  a  matter  of  course 
in  the  community ;  yet  its  tendency  is  more  than  virtuous, 
it  is  lofty  and  pure.  The  reader  laughs,  but  it  is  with  a  tear 
in  his  eye,  which  is  one  of  the  highest  luxuries  of  feeling." 
And  from  that  day  to  this  "The  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp" 
and  its  companion  stories  have  been  generally  regarded  as 
unique  and  convincing  dramatic  sketches  of  strange,  virile 
R  241 


242         Provincial  Types  in  the  Far  West 

Western  types  which  could  have  existed  only  under  the 
peculiar  conditions  of  Californian  life  in  the  early  fifties. 

Deaths  were  common  enough  in  "Roaring  Camp,"  but 
births  were  not  only  a  sensation,  they  were  absolutely  un- 
known. So  that  the  expected  birth  of  a  child  to  "  Cherokee 
Sal,"  the  only  woman  in  the  camp,  despite  the  fact  that  she 
was  of  the  abandoned  sort,  was  stirring  excitement  in  all 
and  even  sympathy  in  a  few.  "You  go  in  there,  Stumpy," 
said  a  prominent  member  of  the  camp,  familiarly  known 
as  "  Kentuck."  "  Go  in  there,  and  see  what  you  can  do. 
You've  had  experience  in  them  things."  Stumpy,  who  had 
in  other  parts  been  the  alleged  head  of  two  families  at  one 
time,  was  approved  as  a  choice  by  the  crowd  of  loungers 
outside  the  rude  cabin  where  the  prospective  mother  lay, 
and,  bowing  to  the  will  of  the  majority,  he  disappeared 
behind  the  cabin  door  to  act  as  extempore  surgeon  and 
midwife. 

Outside,  the  assembled  camp  sat  and  waited  and  smoked. 
Among  this  lounging  group  of  a  hundred  men  there  were 
some  who  were  actual  fugitives  from  justice,  "  some  were 
criminal  and  all  were  reckless."  Physically,  there  was  no 
indication  of  their  past  lives  written  in  their  faces.  "  The 
greatest  scamp  had  a  Raphael  face,  with  a  profusion  of 
blonde  hair ;  Oakhurst,  a  gambler,  had  the  melancholy  air 
and  intellectual  abstraction  of  a  Hamlet ;  the  coolest  and 
most  courageous  man  was  scarcely  over  five  feet  in  height, 
with  a  soft  voice  and  an  embarrassed,  timid  manner."  Closer 
scrutiny  might  have  brought  out  certain  physical  deficiencies 
in  the  matter  of  fingers,  toes,  and  ears,  —  the  strongest  man 
had  only  three  fingers  on  his  right  hand  and  the  best  shot 
had  only  one  eye. 

About  the  fire  of  withered  pine  boughs  bets  were  freely 


"  The  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp  "          243 

offered  as  to  the  result  within  the  cabin,  —  three  to  five  that 
"  Sal  would  get  through  with  it  "  and  that  the  child  would 
survive.  There  were  side  bets  also  on  the  sex  and  complex- 
ion of  the  expected  stranger.  Suddenly,  above  the  swaying 
and  moaning  of  the  pines,  the  rush  of  the  river,  and  the 
crackling  of  the  fire,  rose  a  sharp,  querulous  cry,  —  a  cry 
unheard  before  in  that  far-away  camp  of  rough  miners. 
They  rose  to  their  feet  as  one  man ;  and  although  a  barrel 
of  gunpowder  was  proposed  as  a  proper  means  of  celebrat- 
ing, only  a  few  revolvers  went  off,  for  report  came  that 
Cherokee  Sal  was  sinking  fast. 

Within  an  hour  she  died,  and  after  the  settling  of  some 
details  the  anxious  crowd  of  men  entered  the  cabin  in  single 
file.  On  a  pine  table,  swathed  in  red  flannel  and  deposited 
in  a  candle-box,  lay  the  "last  arrival"  at  Roaring  Camp. 
And  beside  the  candle-box  rested  a  hat.  "  Gentlemen," 
said  the  extempore  midwife  Stumpy,  in  a  tone  of  some- 
what complacent  authority,  "  Gentlemen  will  please  pass  in 
at  the  front  door,  round  the  table,  and  out  at  the  back  door. 
Them  as  wishes  to  contribute  anything  toward  the  orphan 
will  find  a  hat  handy."  As  the  men  passed  by  there  were 
overheard  comments  like  these  :  "  Is  that  him? "  "  Mighty 
small  specimen  ;  "  "  Hasn't  mor'n  got  the  color ;  "  "  Ain't 
bigger  nor  a  derringer."  Among  the  contributions  to  the 
hat  were  a  silver  tobacco-box,  a  navy  revolver,  a  gold  speci- 
men, a  beautifully  embroidered  handkerchief  (from  Oak- 
hurst,  the  gambler),  a  diamond  breastpin,  a  slung  shot,  a  Bible 
("  contributor  not  detected  ") ,  a  silver  teaspoon,  a  pair  of  sur- 
geon's shears,  a  Bank  of  England  note  for  five  pounds,  and 
two  hundred  dollars  in  loose  gold  and  silver  coin.  Only  one 
little  incident  broke  the  monotony  of  this  strange  procession. 
As  Kentuck  bent  over  the  candle-box  the  child  turned  and 


244        Provincial  Types  in  the  Far  West 

in  a  spasm  of  pain  caught  at  his  finger  and  held  it  fast  for  a 
moment.  When  he  got  outside  the  cabin  Kentuck,  holding 
up  his  finger,  remarked  in  a  rather  pleased  tone  to  a  com- 
panion, "  He  rastled  with  my  finger,  the  d d  little  cuss  !  " 

That  night  neither  Stumpy  nor  Kentuck  went  to  bed. 
When  every  one  else  had  retired,  Kentuck  walked  down  to 
the  river,  whistling  reflectively,  then  up  the  gulch  past  the 
cabin,  then  part  way  down  to  the  river  again,  until  finally 
he  returned  and  knocked  at  the  cabin  door,  which  was 
opened  by  Stumpy.  "  How  goes  it?  "  said  Kentuck,  look- 
ing at  the  candle-box.  "All  serene,"  returned  Stumpy. 
"  Anything  up?  "  "  Nothing."  There  was  an  embarrassing 
pause,  and  then  the  foolishly  anxious  Kentuck,  holding  up 

his  finger,  exclaimed  :  "  Rastled  with  it,  —  the  d d  little 

cuss,"  —  and  withdrew. 

In  the  ways  and  means  suggested  for  rearing  the  new- 
born infant  the  suggestion  that  a  female  nurse  be  sent  for 
met  with  no  favor.  No  decent  woman  would  be  willing  to 
make  Roaring  Camp  her  home,  and  "  they  didn't  want  any 
more  of  the  other  kind."  It  was  at  last  decided  to  have 
Stumpy — in  cooperation  with  "Jinny,"  the  ass  —  con- 
tinue to  act  as  wet-nurse,  —  there  was  something  original  and 
heroic  about  the  idea  that  pleased  the  camp.  Certain 
necessary  articles  for  the  baby  were  sent  for  to  Sacramento. 
"  Mind,"  said  the  treasurer,  as  he  pressed  a  bag  of  gold- 
dust  into  the  expressman's  hand,  "  the  best  that  can  be  got, 

—  lace,  you  know,  and  filigree-work  and  frills,  —  d n  the 

cost !  "  For  some  strange  reason  the  child  thrived  and 
grew  under  the  influence  of  Stumpy  and  the  ass's  milk,  — 
"Me  and  that  ass,"  Stumpy  would  say,  "has  been  father 
and  mother  to  him  !  Don't  you,"  addressing  the  helpless 
bundle  in  the  candle-box,  "  never  go  back  on  us." 


"  The  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp"          245 

When  the  baby  was  a  month  old  there  came  the  necessity 
for  a  name,  —  he  had  generally  been  known  as  "  The  Kid," 
"Stumpy's  Boy,"  and  "The  Coyote"  ("an  allusion  to  his 
vocal  powers  ").  These,  however,  were  felt  to  be  vague  and 
somewhat  unsatisfactory;  and  on  the  theory  of  Oakhurst, 
the  gambler,  that  the  child  had  brought  "  luck  "  to  Roaring 
Camp,  it  was  thenceforward  to  be  called  "Luck,"  with 
11  Tommy  "for  a  convenient  prefix.  No  reference  was  made 
to  the  mother,  and  the  father  was  unknown.  "  It's  better," 
said  the  gambler,  "  to  take  a  fresh  deal  all  round.  Call  him 
Luck  and  start  him  fair."  At  the  baby's  christening,  which 
was  intended  to  be  a  screaming  burlesque  for  which  a  muti- 
lated church  service,  a  godfather,  and  an  altar  had  been 
prepared,  little  Stumpy  suddenly  stepped  before  the  ex- 
pectant crowd,  and,  looking  them  all  stoutly  in  the  faces, 
said  :  "  It  ain't  my  style  to  spoil  fun,  boys,  but  it  strikes  me 
that  this  thing  ain't  exactly  on  the  squar'.  It's  playing  it 
pretty  low  down  on  this  yer  baby  to  ring  in  fun  on  him  that 
he  ain't  goin'  to  understand.  And  ef  there's  goin'  to  be  any 
godfathers  round,  I'd  like  to  see  who's  got  any  better  rights 
than  me."  The  first  to  break  the  silence  that  followed  was 
the  satirist  himself,  who  acknowledged  the  propriety  of 
Stumpy's  position.  Whereupon  Stumpy  proclaimed  the 
baby,  "  Thomas  Luck,  according  to  the  laws  of  the  United 
States  and  the  State  of  California,  so  help  me  God." 

The  unconscious  influence  of  child  life  on  a  miners' 
camp  was  soon  illustrated  and  in  a  remarkable  way.  The 
cabin  itself  was  kept  scrupulously  clean  and  whitewashed ;  the 
rosewood  cradle  —  "packed"  eighty  miles  by  mule  —  had, 
as  Stumpy  observed,  "  sorter  killed  the  rest  of  the  furniture," 
and  so  made  necessary  the  rehabilitation  of  the  whole  cabin. 
The  cabin's  new  interior  so  affected  "  Tuttle's  grocery  "  that 


246         Provincial  Types  in  the  Far  West 

it  imported  a  carpet  and  mirrors.  And  even  the  personal 
appearance  and  cleanliness  of  the  men  was  improved,  for 
one  of  Stumpy 's  conditions  was  that  "  to  hold  The  Luck  "  you 
had  to  be  clean.  One  denial  of  such  privilege  had  made 
Kentuck  put  on  a  clean  shirt  every  afternoon,  and  he  always 
came  to  see  the  baby  "  with  his  face  still  shining  from  his 
ablutions."  For  "Tommy's  "  repose,  also,  it  seemed  best  to 
stop  the  shouting  and  yelling  that  had  given  the  unfortunate 
name  to  the  camp,  but  vocal  music  was  regarded  as  a  sooth- 
ing element  to  be  desired.  So  that  "  Man-o'-War  Jack " 
was  allowed  to  hold  The  Luck  and  sing  his  sailor  song  of 
"The  Arethusa,  Seventy-Four  "  ;  and  it  was  a  fine  sight  to  see 
the  rough  old  English  sailor  rocking  from  side  to  side  and 
crooning  to  the  child,  while  the  men  lay  at  full  length  under 
the  trees  at  twilight,  smoking,  and  listening  to  the  ninety 
stanzas  of  the  rather  melancholy  song.  "  An  indistinct  idea 
that  this  was  pastoral  happiness  pervaded  the  camp."  In 
the  words  of  "  Cockney  "  Simmons,  "  This  'ere  kind  o'  think 
is  'evingly." 

During  the  long  summer  days,  on  a  blanket  spread  over 
pine  boughs,  The  Luck  would  lie  in  the  gulch,  while  the 
men  were  working  below  in  the  ditches ;  and  they  got  to 
decorating  this  improvised  bed  with  flowers  and  sweet-smell- 
ing shrubs,  and  bringing  him  clusters  of  wild  honeysuckle 
and  azaleas.  Unconsciously  the  child  was  interpreting  for 
these  rough,  hard  men  the  beauty  of  nature  all  about  them  : 
and  many  were  the  wonderful  treasures  rescued  from  the 
woods  and  hillsides  that  "  would  do  for  Tommy."  Natu- 
rally some  remarkable  stories  as  to  The  Luck's  infantile  sa- 
gacity were  told,  sometimes  with  a  tinge  of  superstition  in 
them.  One  day  Kentuck,  in  a  state  of  excitement,  related 
an  experience  of  his  own  :  "  I  crep'  up  the  bank  just  now, 


"  The  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp  "          247 

and  dern  my  skin  if  he  wasn't  a-talking  to  a  jay  bird  as 
was  a  sittin'  on  his  lap.  There  they  was,  just  as  free  and 
sociable  as  anything  you  please,  a-jawin'  at  each  other  just 
like  two  cherrybums." 

It  was  a  golden  summer  for  Roaring  Camp,  —  the  times 
were  "  flush,"  and  the  claims  yielded  enormously.  No  im- 
migration was  encouraged,  all  the  available  land  about  the 
camp  was  preempted,  and  a  reputation  for  good  shooting 
tended  to  keep  the  seclusion  of  the  camp  inviolate.  But 
the  expressman  used  sometimes  to  gratify  outside  curiosity 
by  his  wonderful  stories  of  the  camp  :  "  They've  a  street  up 
there  in  '  Roaring '  that  would  lay  over  any  street  in  Red 
Dog.  They've  got  vines  and  flowers  round  their  houses,  and 
they  wash  themselves  twice  a  day.  But  they're  mighty 
rough  on  strangers,  and  they  worship  an  Ingin  baby." 

With  all  this  prosperity  came  the  desire  to  do  more  for 
Tommy,  and  it  was  even  proposed  to  build  a  hotel  and 
invite  one  or  two  decent  families  so  that  The  Luck  could 
have  the  advantages  of  feminine  society.  But  alas  for 
their  high  resolves  and  purposes  !  The  winter  of  1851  was 
remarkable  for  its  heavy  snows,  and  as  the  spring  drew  on 
every  gulch  became  a  roaring  watercourse.  The  North 
Fork  suddenly  leaped  its  banks,  dashed  up  the  triangular 
valley  of  Roaring  Camp,  and  in  the  night,  amid  the  confu- 
sion of  rushing  water  and  crashing  trees,  Stumpy's  cabin 
was  carried  away.  Stumpy's  body  was  found  high  up  the 
gulch,  but  The  Luck  had  disappeared.  A  relief  boat,  how- 
ever, brought  news  that  it  had  picked  up  a  man  and  an 
infant,  almost  exhausted.  The  searchers  knew  at  a  glance 
that  here  was  Kentuck,  crushed  and  bruised,  but  still  hold- 
ing The  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp  in  his  arms.  The  child 
was  dead,  and  as  they  bent  over  Kentuck  he  opened  his 


248         Provincial  Types  in  the  Far  West 

eyes.  "Dead  ?"  said  Kentuck.  "Yes,  my  man,  and  you 
are  dying  too."  With  a  smile  on  his  face  the  expiring  man 
repeated,  "  Dying  !  he's  a-taking  me  with  him.  Tell  the 
boys  I've  got  The  Luck  with  me  now."  And,  together, 
Kentuck  and  the  child  floated  out  on  the  shadowy  river  that 
loses  itself  in  an  unknown  sea. 

As  strange,  rough  types  in  the  picturesque  and  rugged 
mining  camp  of  fifty  years  ago,  Stumpy  and  Kentuck 
will  long  survive ;  and  through  the  art  of  the  author 
unsuspected  qualities  of  mind  and  heart  are  developed  in 
them  by  the  mute  appeal  of  an  abandoned  woman's  new- 
born child. 

A  unique  and  striking  figure  among  the  "Outcasts  of 
Poker  Flat  "  is  Mr.  John  Oakhurst,  type  of  the  imperturbable, 
smooth,  daring,  and  irresistible  Western  gambler,  who,  under 
unexpected  conditions,  develops  unexpected  qualities, — 
the  qualities  of  practical  sympathy  and  heroic  self-sacrifice. 
He  had  been  included  among  those  who  were  destined  to 
leave  Poker  Flat,  for  the  community  had  recently  lost  sev- 
eral thousand  dollars,  two  valuable  horses,  and  a  prominent 
citizen.  Two  of  those  destined  for  exile  were  already  hang- 
ing to  the  boughs  of  a  sycamore  in  the  gulch  ;  a  secret  com- 
mittee had  even  considered  the  hanging  of  Mr.  Oakhurst, 
one  of  the  minority  contending  that  "  it's  agin  justice  to  let 
this  yer  young  man  from  Roaring  Camp  —  an  entire  stran- 
ger—  carry  away  our  money."  The  minority  of  the  com- 
mittee, however,  was  overruled,  and  Mr.  Oakhurst  was 
included  in  the  "deported  wickedness"  that  was  escorted 
to  the  outskirts  of  Poker  Flat  by  a  body  of  armed  men.  In 
this  expatriated  company  were  a  young  woman  familiarly 
known  as  the  "  Duchess,"  another  called  "  Mother  Shipton," 
and  a  third  person,  "  Uncle  Billy,"  a  suspected  sluice-robber 


"  The  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp  "          249 

and  confirmed  drunkard.  At  the  outermost  edge  of  Poker 
Flat  this  company  was  set  adrift,  with  the  implicit  injunction 
not  to  return,  at  the  peril  of  their  lives. 

The  "  outcasts  "  decided  on  Sandy  Bar  for  their  destina- 
tion, a  camp  that  lay  over  a  steep  mountain  range,  a  hard 
day's  travel  distant.  At  noon  the  Duchess  refused  to  go 
farther,  and  the  party  halted,  although  scarcely  half  the 
journey  to  Sandy  Bar  was  accomplished  and  provisions  for 
delay  were  lacking.  Mr.  Oakhurst,  the  gambler,  called  it 
"  throwing  up  their  hand  before  the  game  was  played  out." 
But  they  were  provided  with  whisky,  if  not  with  any  ade- 
quate supply  of  provisions,  and  they  were  all  soon  in  a  help- 
less state  of  stupor  —  all  except  the  gambler,  who  never 
drank,  —  it  interfered,  he  said,  with  his  profession  and  he 
"  couldn't  afford  it."  His  thought  seemed  never  to  be  that 
of  deserting  his  feebler  and  more  pitiable  companions,  as  they 
lay  in  a  drunken  stupor  amid  the  encircling  pines,  —  pre- 
cipitous cliffs  of  naked  granite  rising  above  them  on  three 
sides,  and  the  crest  of  a  precipice  in  front  overlooking  the 
valley.  They  were  suddenly  reenforced  by  an  eloping  couple 
going  to  Poker  Flat  to  be  married,  and  as  the  prospective 
bridegroom  had  once  lost  money  to  Mr.  Oakhurst  and  had  it 
considerately  returned,  he  greeted  the  gambler  as  a  genuine 
friend  and  was  insistent  on  camping  with  his  party,  assuring 
Mr.  Oakhurst  that  he  had  an  extra  mule  loaded  with  provi- 
sions, and  that  there  was  a  rude  attempt  at  a  log  house  near 
the  trail.  That  night  the  women  spent  in  the  log  house  and 
the  men  lay  before  the  door.  Waking  benumbed  with  cold, 
the  gambler  stirred  the  dying  fire  and  felt  on  his  cheek  the 
touch  of  snow  !  Turning  to  where  the  thieving  Uncle  Billy 
slept  he  found  him  gone,  and  the  tethered  mules  with  him. 
At  dawn  the  gambler  recognized  that  they  were  "  snowed 


250        Provincial  Types  in  the  Far  West 

in,"  with  all  that  implied  in  the  loss  of  the  trail  and  the  cut- 
ting off  of  provisions  and  rescue. 

In  his  unsuspected  kindliness  of  heart  Mr.  Oakhurst,  the 
gambler,  was  unwilling  that  Tom  Simson  and  Piney,  the 
eloping  couple,  should  know  the  real  rascality  of  Uncle  Billy, 
and  implied  that  the  latter  had  wandered  off  from  the  camp 
and  stampeded  the  animals  by  accident.  And  through  the 
gambler's  request  the  Duchess  and  Mother  Shipton  also 
gave  out  the  same  impression  as  to  Uncle  Billy's  where- 
abouts. But  Tom  seemed  rather  to  look  forward  to  a 
week's  camping  with  his  sweetheart,  and  his  gayety  and  Mr. 
Oakhurst's  professional  calm  "infected"  the  others.  From 
some  unaccountable  motive  Mr.  Oakhurst  cached  the  whisky, 
and  concealed  his  cards.  And  Tom  somewhat  osten- 
tatiously produced  an  accordion  from  his  pack,  from  which 
his  sweetheart,  Piney,  succeeded  in  plucking  a  few  reluctant 
tunes  to  the  accompaniment  of  Tom's  bone  castanets.  The 
lovers  sang,  too,  a  rude  camp- meeting  hymn,  joining  hands 
as  they  did  so,  and  the  defiant  covenanters'  swing  of  the 
chorus  finally  led  the  others  to  join  in  the  somewhat  pro- 
phetic refrain :  — 

"  I'm  proud  to  live  in  the  service  of  the  Lord, 
And  I'm  bound  to  die  in  His  army." 

And  above  these  doomed  singers  the  pines  rocked  and  the 
storm  eddied. 

In  dividing  the  watch  that  night  with  Tom  Simson,  Mr. 
Oakhurst  somehow  managed  to  take  upon  himself  the 
greater  share  of  the  duty,  explaining  that  he  had  "often 
been  a  week  without  sleep  "  when  luck  at  poker  ran  high. 
"When  a  man  gets  a  streak  of  luck,  —  nigger-luck,  —  he 
don't  get  tired.  The  luck  gives  in  first.  Luck,"  continued 


"The  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp  "          251 

the  gambler  meditatively,  "  is  a  mighty  queer  thing.  All  you 
know  is  that  it's  bound  to  change.  And  it's  finding  out  when 
it's  going  to  change  that  makes  you." 

The  nights  were  filled  with  the  reedy  notes  of  the  accor- 
dion, but  music  failed  to  fill  the  aching  void  of  insufficient 
food,  and  story-telling  was  suggested  by  Piney.  However, 
Mr.  Oakhurst  and  his  female  companions  were  hardly  will- 
ing to  relate  their  personal  experiences  in  the  presence  of 
the  Innocent,  as  they  called  Tom,  or  of  "  the  child,"  as  the 
Duchess  and  Mother  Shipton  called  Piney;  and  this  plan 
of  diversion  would  have  fallen  through  had  the  Innocent  not 
been  able  to  recall  some  of  Mr.  Pope's  translation  of  the 
"Iliad,"  which  he  had  chanced  upon  a  few  months  before. 
He  told  the  exciting  incidents  of  the  epic  in  the  current 
vernacular  of  Sandy  Bar.  And  he  got  an  enthusiastic  hear- 
ing, while  the  great  pines  in  the  canon  seemed  to  bow  to 
the  wrath  of  the  son  of  Peleus.  Mr.  Oakhurst  was  espe- 
cially interested  in  the  fate  of  "  Ash-heels,"  as  the  Innocent 
insisted  on  calling  the  "  swift-footed  Achilles." 

A  week  passed  over  the  heads  of  the  outcasts,  the  sun 
again  abandoned  them,  and  the  leaden  skies  sifted  swiftly 
down  upon  them  great  banks  of  snow,  till  they  stood  more 
than  twenty  feet  above  the  cabin.  It  became  increasingly 
difficult  to  replenish  the  fires,  and  yet  no  one  complained. 
The  lovers  looked  into  each  other's  eyes  and  were  happy, 
but  Mother  Shipton  seemed  to  sicken  and  fade.  At  mid- 
night of  the  tenth  day  she  called  the  gambler  to  her  side, 
and  said,  in  a  querulous  weakness  of  voice  :  "  I'm  going,  but 
don't  say  anything  about  it.  Don't  waken  the  kids.  Take 
the  bundle  from  under  my  head  and  open  it."  It  contained 
the  rations  she  had  saved  for  a  week.  "  Give  'em  to  the 
child,"  she  said,  pointing  to  Piney.  Starvation  through 


252         Provincial  Types  in  the  Far  West 

self-sacrifice  was  the  unexpected  ending  of  this  abandoned 
woman's  life. 

With  another  unselfish  motive  coming  to  the  surface, 
Mr.  Oakhurst  took  the  Innocent  aside  and  showed  him  a 
pair  of  snow-shoes  he  had  fashioned  from  the  old  pack- 
saddles.  The  gambler  announced  that  if  by  the  aid  of 
these  Tom  could  reach  Poker  Flat  in  two  days,  his  sweet- 
heart could  be  saved.  Oakhurst  pretended  to  accompany 
Tom  as  far  as  the  canon,  unexpectedly  kissing  the  Duchess 
good-by  before  he  went.  It  stirred  her  with  emotion  and 
amazement;  but  the  gambler  never  came  back.  The 
Duchess,  feeding  the  fire  during  the  fierce  storm  of  wind 
and  snow  on  the  following  night,  found  that  some  one  had 
quietly  piled  beside  the  hut  enough  fuel  to  last  a  few  days 
longer ;  and  it  was  not  difficult  to  surmise  that  it  was  due 
to  the  thoughtfulness  of  Oakhurst.  The  second  night  the 
two  women  were  frozen  to  death  in  each  other's  arms  — 
the  soiled  Duchess  and  the  virgin  Piney.  "  And  when  pity- 
ing fingers  brushed  the  snow  away  from  their  wan  faces, 
you  could  scarcely  have  told,  from  the  equal  peace  that 
dwelt  upon  them,  which  was  she  that  had  sinned." 

At  the  head  of  the  gulch  the  searchers  found  on  one  of 
the  largest  pine  trees  the  deuce  of  clubs  pinned  to  the  bark 
with  a  bowie  knife ;  and  on  it  was  written  in  pencil,  with  a 
firm  hand,  "  Beneath  this  tree  lies  the  body  of  John  Oak- 
hurst, who  struck  a  streak  of  bad  luck  on  the  23d  Novem- 
ber, 1850,  and  handed  in  his  checks  on  the  yth  of  December, 
1850."  And  underneath  the  snow,  with  a  bullet  through 
his  heart  and  a  derringer  by  his  side,  lay  the  calm-faced 
gambler,  whose  hard  life  was  softened  and  ennobled  at  its 
close  by  thoughtful  sympathy  and  sublime  self-sacrifice. 

One  of  the  more  unusual  and  successful  of  Mr.  Harte's 


"The  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp"          253 

short  stories  in  this  volume  is  the  very  human  and  dra- 
matic narrative  of  "  How  Santa  Claus  Came  to  Simp- 
son's Bar."  By  reason  of  the  heavy  rains  the  North  Fork 
of  the  Sacramento  had  overrun  its  banks  and  Rattlesnake 
Creek  had  become  impassable.  The  bowlders  that  marked 
the  ford  at  Simpson's  Crossing  were  lost  in  the  vast  sheet 
of  water  reaching  to  the  foot-hills ;  and  even  the  stage  and 
the  mail  had  to  be  abandoned.  The  mud  lay  so  deep  on  the 
mountain  road  that  neither  force  nor  profanity  could  lift  the 
wagons  from  the  miry  ruts,  and  the  way  to  Simpson's  Bar 
was  marked  by  broken-down  teams  and  stranded  vehicles. 
The  weather,  too,  on  that  Christmas  eve  in  1862,  could 
hardly  have  been  worse ;  and  Simpson's  Bar,  as  it  "  clung 
like  a  swallow's  nest  to  the  rocky  entablature  and  splintered 
capitals  of  Table  Mountain,"  was  smitten  with  high  winds 
as  well  as  threatened  with  high  water. 

That  particular  Christmas  eve  most  of  the  population  of 
Simpson's  Bar  were  snugly  gathered  at  Thompson's  grocery, 
where  a  red-hot  stove  seemed  to  be  the  center  of  social 
interest,  in  lieu  of  more  exciting  diversions.  For  on  account 
of  the  high  water  and  consequent  suspension  of  regular  em- 
ployment on  gulch  and  river,  there  was  naturally  lack  of 
money  and  whisky,  which  usually  added  so  much  zest  to  the 
somewhat  questionable  recreations  of  the  inhabitants  of  the 
Bar.  Even  the  professional  gambler,  Mr.  Hamlin,  was  glad 
to  get  away  with  fifty  dollars  in  his  pocket,  —  all  he  could 
realize  from  the  large  sums  he  had  actually  won  in  the  prac- 
tice of  his  profession.  His  impression  of  Simpson's  Bar  was 
in  the  main  complimentary,  but  not  entirely  favorable  to  it 
as  a  permanent  place  for  a  needy  and  ambitious  gambler. 
"  Ef  I  was  asked,"  he  once  remarked,  "  ef  I  was  asked  to 
pint  out  a  purty  little  village  where  a  retired  sport  as  didn't 


254        Provincial  Types  in  the  Far  West 

care  for  money  could  exercise  hisself,  frequent  and  lively, 
I'd  say  Simpson's  Bar ;  but  for  a  young  man  with  a  large 
family  depending  on  his  exertions,  it  don't  pay." 

The  group  around  the  glowing  stove  in  Thompson's  store 
were  sitting  in  a  dull  apathy,  which  not  even  the  sudden 
splashing  of  hoofs  outside  was  effective  enough  to  arouse. 
Dick  Bullen,  the  oracle  and  leader  at  Simpson's  Bar,  only 
paused  in  the  act  of  scraping  out  his  pipe,  and  lifted  his 
head ;  but  no  one  else  in  the  silent  circle  made  any  sign  of 
interest,  or  even  an  effort  at  recognition,  when  a  man  entered. 
It  was  the  familiar  figure  of  the  "  Old  Man,"  who  was  ap- 
parently some  fifty  years  of  age,  with  scant  and  grizzled 
hair,  a  youthful  complexion,  and  a  face  of  ready  sympathy 
that  changed,  chameleon-like,  with  "  the  shade  and  color  of 
contiguous  moods  and  feelings."  Coming,  evidently,  from 
association  with  hilarious  companions,  he  mistook  the  tem- 
per of  the  present  company,  and  clapping  the  nearest  man 
on  the  shoulder  began  to  make  what  he  considered  an  appe- 
tizing allusion  to  "  the  richest  yarn  "  he  had  just  heard  from 
Jim  Smiley,  —  "  the  funniest  man  in  the  Bar."  When,  how- 
ever, the  solemn  judgment  of  the  company  was  expressed  to 
the  effect  that  Smiley  was  a  fool  and  a  skunk,  the  Old  Man's 
face  discreetly  changed  to  one  of  pessimistic  assent,  and  he 
appropriately  remarked  on  the  dismalness  of  the  weather. 
"  Mighty  rough  papers  on  the  boys,  and  no  show  for  money 
this  season.  And  to-morrow's  Christmas."  .  .  .  "Yes," 
continued  the  Old  Man  in  the  lugubrious  tone  he  had 
unconsciously  adopted,  "Yes,  Christmas,  and  to-night's 
Christmas  Eve.  Ye  see,  boys,  I  kinder  thought  —  that  is,  I 
sorter  had  an  idee,  jest  passin'  like,  you  know  —  that  maybe 
ye'd  like  to  come  over  to  my  house  to-night  and  have  a 
sort  of  tear  round." 


"  The  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp  "          255 

The  only  reply  to  his  anxious  invitation  came  from  Tom 
Flynn,  who  wanted  to  know  what  the  Old  Man's  wife  thought 
about  it.  There  was  hesitation  on  the  part  of  the  Old  Man, 
for  this  was  his  second  wife,  who  had  formerly  been  his  cook, 
and  she  was  large  and  aggressive.  "  Before  he  could  reply, 
Joe  Dimmick  suggested,  with  great  directness,  that  it  was 
the  '  Old  Man's  house,'  and  that,  invoking  the  Divine  Power, 
if  the  case  were  his  own  he  would  invite  whom  he  pleased, 
even  if  in  so  doing  he  imperiled  his  salvation."  Spurred 
to  unaccustomed  boldness  by  the  subtle  audacity  of  this  sug- 
gestion, the  Old  Man  sympathetically  frowned,  and  replied  : 
"Thar's  no  trouble  about  thet.  It's  my  own  house,  built 
every  stick  on  it  myself.  Don't  you  be  afeard  o'  her,  boys. 
She  may  cut  up  a  trifle  rough  —  ez  wimmin  do  —  but  she'll 
come  round."  He  was  secretly  relying  on  "  the  exaltation  of 
liquor  and  the  power  of  courageous  example  to  sustain  him 
in  such  an  emergency." 

And  now  spoke  Dick  Bullen,  the  oracle.  Taking  his  pipe 
from  his  mouth,  he  inquired  sympathetically  :  "  Old  Man,  how's 
that  yer  Johnny  gettin'  on  ?  Seems  to  me  he  didn't  look  so 
peart  last  time  I  seed  him  on  the  bluff  heavin'  rocks  at 
Chinamen.  Didn't  seem  to  take  much  interest  in  it.  Thar 
was  a  gang  of  'em  by  yar  yesterday,  —  drownded  out  up  the 
river,  —  and  I  kinder  thought  o'  Johnny,  and  how  he'd  miss 
'em  !  Maybe  now,  we'd  be  in  the  way  ef  he  wus  sick  ?  " 
The  father  hastened  to  assure  the  oracle  that  Johnny  was 
better  and  that  "  a  little  fun  might  'liven  him  up."  Where- 
upon Dick  Bullen,  catching  up  a  blazing  brand  from  the 
hearth,  made  a  leap  into  the  night,  with  a  characteristic  howl, 
and  his  companions  followed  his  example,  leaving  the  aston- 
ished proprietor  of  Thompson's  grocery  alone  in  his  deserted 
rooms.  The  gusty  night  wind  put  out  the  torches,  but  the 


256         Provincial  Types  in  the  Far  West 

red  brands  went  dancing  and  flitting  up  Pine  Creek  Canon, 
"  like  drunken  will-o'-the-wisps,"  till  they  reached  a  low, 
bark-thatched  cabin  burrowed  in  the  side  of  the  mountain. 
It  stood  at  the  entrance  to  the  tunnel  in  which  the  Old  Man 
worked  when  he  worked  at  all. 

Pausing  out  of  deference  to  their  host,  who  was  the  last  to 
arrive,  they  waited  under  the  eaves  of  the  cabin  while  the 
Old  Man  went  in  to  see  that  "  things  is  all  right."  For  a  few 
moments  there  was  no  sound  but  the  dripping  of  water  from 
the  eaves  and  the  "  rustle  of  wrestling  boughs  "  above  them. 
Then  the  men  began  to  show  anxiety,  and  their  whispered 
suspicions  passed  back  and  forth  :  "  Reckoned  she's  caved 
in  his  head  the  first  lick  !  "  "  Decoyed  him  inter  the  tunnel 
and  barred  him  up,  likely."  "  Got  him  down  and  sittin'  on 
him."  "  Prob'bly  biling  suthin'  to  heave  on  us  ;  stand  clear 
the  door,  boys  ! "  Suddenly  the  latch  clicked,  the  door 
slowly  opened,  and  the  weak  treble  of  a  small  boy's  voice 
said  hospitably,  "  Come  in  out  o'  the  wet."  It  was  a  boy's 
face  that  looked  up  at  them,  a  face  that  might  have  been 
pretty,  and  even  refined,  "  but  that  it  was  darkened  by  evil 
knowledge  from  within,  and  dirt  and  hard  experience  from 
without."  He  had  a  blanket  about  his  shoulders  and  had  evi- 
dently just  risen  from  his  bed.  "  Come  in,  and  don't  make 
no  noise.  The  Old  Man's  in  there  talking  to  mar."  As 
Dick  Bullen  caught  the  small  boy  up,  blanket  and  all,  and 
pretended  to  toss  him  into  the  fire,  the  little  fellow  queru- 
lously swore  at  him,  crying  out,  "  Let  me  be ;  ...  let  go 
o'  me  ...  d'  ye  hear?  " 

Ranging  themselves  quietly  round  a  long  table  of  rough 
boards,  the  men  watched  Johnny  as  he  gravely  brought 
from  a  cupboard  several  articles  which  he  laid  upon  the 
table.  "Thar's  whisky.  And  crackers.  And  red  herons. 


"The  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp"          257 

And  cheese."  He  took  a  bite  of  the  latter,  and  also  scooped 
up  with  his  small  and  very  dirty  hand  a  mouthful  of  the 
sugar  he  was  carrying.  Finally  he  added,  in  the  lavishness 
of  his  hospitality :  "  And  terbacker.  Thar's  dried  appils, 
too,  on  the  shelf,  but  I  don't  admire  'em.  Appils  is  swellin'. 
Thar,"  he  concluded,  "  now  wade  in,  and  don't  be  afeard. 
/  don't  mind  the  old  woman.  She  don't  b'long  to  me. 
S'long."  With  that  Johnny  stepped  to  the  threshold  of  his 
little  room  just  off  from  the  main  apartment,  and  stood  there 
a  moment,  looking  at  the  company  and  disclosing  his  bare 
feet  through  the  folds  of  the  blanket.  When  asked  by  Dick 
Bullen  why  he  was  going  to  "  turn  in,"  Johnny  replied  that 
he  was  sick.  "  I've  got  a  fevier.  And  childblains.  And 
roomatiz."  With  the  last  word  Johnny  suddenly  vanished ; 
and  then,  after  a  moment's  pause,  there  came  from  the 
darkness  within,  and  apparently  from  under  the  bedclothes, 
"And  biles!" 

There  followed  an  embarrassing  silence,  which  threatened 
to  be  as  prolonged  and  as  deep  as  that  which  surrounded 
the  group  at  Thompson's  grocery,  when  deprecatingly  sounded 
from  the  kitchen  the  voice  of  the  Old  Man,  lying  to  his  irate 
second  wife  :  "  Certainly  !  Thet's  so.  In  course  they  is. 
A  gang  o'  lazy,  drunken  loafers,  and  that  ar  Dick  Bullen' s 
the  ornariest  of  all.  Didn't  hev  no  more  sabe  than  to  come 
round  yar,  with  sickness  in  the  house  and  no  provision. 
Thet's  what  I  said  :  '  Bullen,'  sez  I,  '  it's  crazy  drunk  you 
are,  or  a  fool,'  sez  I,  l  to  think  o'  such  a  thing.'  '  Staples,' 
I  sez,  '  be  you  a  man,  Staples,  and  'spect  to  raise  h — 11  un- 
der my  roof,  and  invalids  lyin'  round  ? '  But  they  would 
come,  —  they  would.  Thet's  wot  you  must  'spect  o'  such 
trash  as  lays  round  the  Bar."  Whereupon  a  burst  of  laugh- 
ter rose  from  the  listening  men  ;  and  whether  it  was  overheard 


258         Provincial  Types  in  the  Far  West 

in  the  kitchen  or  whether  the  wrathful  wife,  having  exhausted 
all  her  other  modes  of  contempt,  was  giving  her  last  exhibition 
of  temper,  the  back  door  was  suddenly  slammed  with  great 
violence.  In  a  moment  the  Old  Man  himself  reappeared, 
happily  unaware  of  the  cause  of  the  recent  hilarious  out- 
break, and  smiling  blandly,  remarked,  "The  old  woman 
thought  she'd  jest  run  over  to  Mrs.  McFadden's  for  a 
sociable  call." 

Till  nearly  midnight  the  festivities  of  Christmas  eve  were 
continued,  when  from  Johnny's  little  room  came  the  queru- 
lous cry,  "  Oh,  dad."  Dick  Bullen,  holding  up  his  hand, 
said,  "  Hush,"  and  the  Old  Man  hurriedly  disappeared  in  the 
bedroom.  "  His  rheumatiz  is  coming  on  bad,"  said  the 
father,  on  his  reappearance,  "and  he  wants  rubbin'."  But, 
alas  !  the  demijohn  on  the  table  was  empty.  The  men  set 
down  their  tin  cups,  in  their  generous  anxiety,  and  the  Old 
Man  hopefully  remarked  that  he  reckoned  the  whisky  in 
them  would  be  enough.  He  enjoined  them  to  wait  till  he 
got  back,  and  disappeared  with  the  whisky  and  an  old 
flannel  shirt. 

Through  the  partly  closed  door  was  distinctly  audible  this 
peculiar  dialogue:  "  Hevin'  a  good  time  out  yar,  dad?" 
"  Yes,  sonny."  "  To-morrer's  Chrismiss,— ain't  it  ?  "  "  Yes, 
sonny.  How  does  she  feel  now?"  "Better.  Rub  a  little 
furder  down.  Wot's  Chrismiss,  any  way?  Wot's  it  all 
about  ?"  "Oh,  it's  a  day."  There  was  a  silent  interval  of 
rubbing,  and  then  Johnny's  voice  was  again  heard  :  "  Mar 
sez  that  everywhere  else  but  yer  everybody  gives  things  to 
everybody  Chrismiss,  and  then  she  jest  waded  inter  you. 
She  sez  thar's  a  man  they  call  Sandy  Claws,  not  a  white  man, 
you  know,  but  a  kind  o'  Chinemm  —  comes  down  the 
chimbley  night  afore  Chrismiss  and  gives  things  to  chillern, 


"The  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp"         259 

—  boys  like  me.     Puts  'em  in  their  butes  !    Thet's  what  she 
tried  to  play  upon  me.     Easy,  now,  pop,  whar  are  you  rub- 
bin'  to,  —  thet's  a  mile  from  the  place.     She  jest  made  that 
up,  didn't  she,  jest  to  aggrevate  me  and  you?    Don't  nib 
thar.    .    .    .     Why,  dad!" 

In  the  great  quiet  that  followed  could  be  heard  the  sigh- 
ing of  the  neighboring  pines  and  the  dripping  of  the  leaves. 
Johnny's  voice  grew  lower  as  he  went  on  :  "  Don't  you  take 
on  now,  for  I'm  gettin'  all  right  fast.  Wot's  the  boys  doin' 
out  thar?"  Through  the  partly  opened  door  the  Old  Man 
could  see  his  guests  sitting  there  sociably  enough,  with  a  few 
coins  and  a  lean  buckskin  purse  lying  on  the  table.  "  Bettin' 
on  suthin',  some  little  game  or  'nother.  They're  all  right," 
he  replied  to  Johnny,  and  renewed  his  rubbing.  Johnny 
expressed  a  wish  that  he  could  take  a  hand  and  win  some 
money,  and  the  Old  Man  glibly  repeated  his  old  formula  of 
consolation  that  when  he  struck  it  rich  in  the  tunnel  Johnny 
would  have  lots  of  money.  "Yes,"  said  Johnny,  "but  you 
don't.  And  whether  you  strike  it  or  win  it,  it's  about  the 
same.  It's  all  luck.  But  it's  mighty  cur'o's  about  Chrismiss, 

—  ain't  it?     Why  do  they  call  it  Chrismiss ?"     But  whether 
from  deference  to  the  ears  of  his  guests,  or  from  "  some 
vague  sense  of  incongruity,"  the  Old  Man's  reply  was  so  low 
as  not  to  reach  the  outer  room.     "  Yes,"  said  Johnny,  with 
slighter  interest  in  his  voice,  "I've  heerd  o'  him  before. 
Thar,  that'll  do,  dad.     I  don't  ache  near  so  bad  as  I  did." 
Asking  his  father  to  wrap  the  blanket  tightly  about  him,  and 
to  sit  down  by  him  till  he  went  to  sleep,  Johnny  disengaged 
one  hand  from  the  blanket,  and,  taking  hold  of  his  father's 
sleeve  to  assure  himself  that  he  was  there,  he  finally  fell 
asleep. 

The  unusual  stillness  in  the  house  prompted  the  Old  Man 


260         Provincial  Types  in  the  Far  West 

to  open  the  door  with  his  disengaged  hand,  and  look  into 
the  main  room.  What  was  his  surprise  to  find  it  dark  and 
apparently  deserted.  But  at  that  moment  a  sudden  flame 
from  the  smoldering  log  leaped  up  and  lighted  the  face  of 
Dick  Bullen,  sitting  alone  before  the  dying  embers.  Dick 
explained  that  the  rest  had  gone  up  the  canon  and  that  he 
was  waiting  for  them.  The  Old  Man  stared  at  Dick  as  if  he 
were  drunk,  and,  in  fact,  his  face  was  flushed  and  his  eyes 
moist  —  but  not  from  liquor.  Dick  defended  himself  from 
the  implied  charge  by  remarking :  "  Liquor  ain't  so  plenty 
as  that,  Old  Man.  Now  don't  you  git  up,"  he  continued, 
as  the  father  made  a  movement  to  release  his  sleeve  from 
Johnny's  hand.  "  Don't  you  mind  manners.  Sit  jest  whar 
you  be  ;  I'm  goin'  in  a  jiffy.  Thar,  that's  them  now."  And 
saying  good-night  to  his  host,  he  disappeared  in  the  night. 
The  Old  Man,  drawing  his  chair  closer  to  the  bed,  rested 
his  head  upon  it,  and  under  the  influence  of  his  earlier 
potations  soon  fell  asleep. 

Meanwhile,  outside,  Dick  Bullen  was  preparing  for  a  fifty- 
mile  ride,  through  the  night  and  the  surging  waters,  in  search 
of  toys  for  Johnny's  Christmas  morning;  but  before  he 
started  he  reentered  the  cabin,  tiptoed  into  the  little  room 
where  the  sick  Johnny  and  his  father  lay  asleep,  and  bent 
down  over  the  little  boy  as  if  to  kiss  his  forehead.  Sud- 
denly, however,  an  inconsiderate  blast  swept  down  the  chim- 
ney and  rekindled  the  hearth,  and  Dick  fled  in  foolish  terror. 

Once  more  with  his  companions  at  the  crossing,  he  stood 
ready  to  mount  the  mare  Jovita  for  his  perilous  night  ride. 
Two  of  them  were  struggling  with  her  in  the  darkness.  "  She 
was  not  a  pretty  picture.  From  her  Roman  nose  to  her 
rising  haunches,  from  her  arched  spine,  hidden  by  the  stiff 
machillas  of  a  Mexican  saddle,  to  her  thick,  straight,  bony 


"The  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp"          261 

Jegs,  there  was  not  a  line  of  equine  grace.  In  her  half-blind 
but  wholly  vicious  white  eyes,  in  her  protruding  under  lip, 
in  her  monstrous  color,  there  was  nothing  but  ugliness  and 
vice."  "  Now,  then,"  said  Staples,  "  stand  cl'ar  of  her  heels, 
boy,  and  up  with  you."  A  leap,  a  struggle,  a  play  and  jingle 
of  spurs,  a  plunge,  —  and  then  the  voice  of  Dick  Bullen 
sounded  out  from  the  darkness,  "  Ail  right ! " 

At  one  o'clock  he  had  only  gained  Rattlesnake  Hill,  owing 
to  Jovita's  rearing  and  plunging  and  mad  shooting  off  on  a 
tangent  with  the  bit  in  her  teeth.  Down  the  long  hill  that 
led  to  Rattlesnake  Creek  Dick  pretended  to  hold  her  in  by 
swearing  at  her  and  by  well-feigned  cries  of  alarm ;  where- 
upon Jovita  ran  away,  as  Dick  intended  she  should,  and 
made  the  long  descent  to  the  creek  in  a  record-breaking 
time  that  became  a  tradition  of  Simpson's  Bar.  At  Rattle- 
snake Creek,  under  her  acquired  momentum,  they  made  a 
mighty  leap  into  the  rushing  current,  and  after  much  kick- 
ing and  wading  and  swimming  she  brought  Dick  safely- 
through  to  the  opposite  bank.  At  two  o'clock  he  had 
passed  Red  Mountain,  and  a  few  minutes  later  the  driver 
of  the  fast  Pioneer  coach  was  overtaken.  At  half-past  two 
Dick  rose  in  his  stirrups  and  gave  a  great  shout,  for  there 
beneath  the  stars  that  glittered  through  the  cloud  rifts 
towered  two  spires  and  a  flagstaff,  and  in  a  few  minutes 
Jovita  and  her  rider  drew  up  before  "The  Hotel  of  All 
Nations  "  in  Tuttleville. 

Giving  Jovita  over  to  the  care  of  a  sleepy  hostler,  "  whom 
she  at  once  kicked  into  unpleasant  consciousness,"  Dick 
Bullen  made  a  sally  with  the  barkeeper  through  the  sleeping 
town.  Avoiding  the  few  saloons  and  gambling  houses  that 
were  still  open,  they  knocked  at  several  closed  shops,  whose 
proprietors  sometimes  cursed  but  oftener  showed  interest  in 


262         Provincial  Types  in  the  Far  West 

Dick's  unusual  errand  of  buying  some  Christmas  toys  for  a 
sick  little  boy  in  Simpson's  Bar.  At  three  o'clock  Dick  had 
his  toys  for  Johnny  snugly  safe  in  a  small  waterproof  bag 
strapped  on  his  shoulders,  and  springing  to  his  saddle  he 
dashed  down  the  deserted  street  and  out  into  the  lonelier 
plain,  from  which  the  lights  of  the  town,  the  spires,  and  the 
flagstaff  sank  gradually  into  the  earth  behind  him. 

Toward  dawn,  as  Dick  was  singing  and  allowing  the  reins 
to  rest  lightly  on  Jovita's  neck,  she  suddenly  shied.  A  high- 
wayman grasped  her  bridle,  and  another  commanded  Dick 
to  throw  up  his  hands.  Jovita  rose  straight  in  the  air, 
threw  off  the  figure  with  a  vicious  shake  of  her  head,  and 
"  charged  with  deadly  malevolence  on  the  impediment 
before  her."  There  was  an  oath,  a  pistol  shot,  and  then 
Jovita  was  a  hundred  yards  away,  with  the  arm  of  her  rider, 
shattered  by  a  bullet,  hanging  helplessly  at  his  side.  His 
only  fear  now  was  that  he  would  be  too  late.  The  morning 
stars  had  begun  to  pale,  and  the  distant  peaks  stood  out 
blackly  against  a  lighter  sky.  He  felt  a  roaring  in  his  ears, 
due  perhaps  to  exhaustion  from  loss  of  blood ;  but  he  at 
last  had  reached  Rattlesnake  Creek,  which  now  had  doubled 
its  volume  and  rolled  a  resistless  river.  For  the  first  time 
the  heart  of  Richard  Bullen  sank  within  him ;  but  casting 
off  his  coat,  his  pistol,  his  boots  and  saddle,  and  binding 
his  precious  bag  of  toys  tightly  to  his  shoulders,  he  gripped 
the  bare  flanks  of  Jovita  with  his  naked  knees,  and  with  a 
shout  dashed  into  the  rushing  water.  A  cry  arose  from  the 
opposite  bank  at  sight  of  the  struggling  man  and  horse,  and 
then  horse  and  rider  were  swept  down  the  mad  current 
in  the  midst  of  uprooted  trees  and  whirling  driftwood. 

A  little  later,  at  the  log  cabin  in  Simpson's  Bar,  the  Old 
Man  woke  at  dawn  to  hear  a  sudden  rapping  on  the  door ; 


c£  The  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp  *'          263 

and  as  he  opened  it  he  fell  back  with  a  cry  before  the  drip- 
ping, half-naked  figure  that  staggered  against  the  doorpost. 
It  was  Dick  Bullen,  and  his  first  question  was,  "  Is  he  awake 
yet?"  Assured  that  the  sick  little  Johnny  was  still  asleep, 
he  asked  for  some  whisky.  But  alas  !  for  the  exhausted 
rider,  when  the  OJd  Man  returned  it  was  only  with  an  empty 
bottle.  Dick  caught  at  the  handle  of  the  door  and  said 
eagerly  :  "  Thar's  suthin'  in  my  pack  yer  for  Johnny.  Take 
it  off.  I  can't."  And  when  the  Old  Man  unstrapped  the 
pack  and  laid  it  before  Dick,  there  were  only  a  few  cheap 
toys  covered  with  tinsel  and  paint  —  one  broken,  one  ruined 
by  the  water,  and  one  stained  with  a  cruel  spot  of  blood. 
"  It  don't  look  like  much,  that's  a  fact,"  said  Dick  regret- 
fully. .  .  .  "But  it's  the  best  we  could  do.  ...  Take 
'em,  Old  Man,  and  put  'em  in  his  stocking,  and  tell  him  — 
tell  him,  you  know,"  —  the  Old  Man  hastened  to  support 
Dick's  sinking  figure,  —  "tell  him,"  said  Dick  with  a  foolish 
little  laugh,  "  tell  him  Sandy  Glaus  has  come."  And  Richard 
Bullen,  who  came  in  so  unexpected  a  guise  as  Santa  Glaus, 
fell  fainting  on  the  threshold,  as  the  Christmas  dawn  came 
slowly  up,  "  touching  the  remoter  peaks  with  the  rosy  warmth 
of  ineffable  love.  And  it  looked  so  tenderly  on  Simpson's 
Bar  that  the  whole  mountain,  as  if  caught  in  a  generous 
action,  blushed  to  the  skies." 

Of  such  generous  impulses,  easy  daring,  and  unconsidered 
self-sacrifice  as  Dick  Bullen's  were  some  of  these  pioneer 
types  compounded,  even  if  with  these  qualities  went  others 
that  were  sadly  incongruous.  And  the  same  strange  mix- 
ture of  traits  is  seen  in  the  dirty  and  profane  little  Johnny, 
who  was  yet  as  hospitable  in  heart  and  as  tender  in  his 
affection  as  the  Old  Man  who  sat  patiently  by  his  bed  that 
Christmas  night  and  showed  the  real  love  of  a  father. 


264         Provincial  Types  in  the  Far  West 

Whether  one  becomes  absorbed  in  the  story  of  "  Mliss," 
the  willful  but  devoted  little  schoolgirl  of  Smith's  Pocket ; 
or  in  the  pathetic  sketch  of  "  Higgles  "  and  her  helpless 
"  baby  "  Jim,  who  had  once  been  her  extravagant  admirer, 
but  had  been  smitten  into  imbecility  by  a  "stroke";  or  in 
the  unavailing  generosity  of  "Tennessee's  Partner";  or  in 
that  dramatic  ride  of  Dick  Bullen  and  Jovita,  across  the 
torrent  of  Rattlesnake  Creek,  that  "Sandy"  Glaus  might 
come  in  time  to  Simpson's  Bar,  —  it  would  be  difficult  to 
say  in  which  of  these  stories  may  be  found  the  deftest 
touches  in  the  characterization  of  those  strange  pioneer 
types  that  live  again  through  the  picturesque  genius  of 
Bret  Harte. 


THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SANTA  CRUZ 


This  book  is  due  on  the  last  DATE  stamped  below. 


JUL    819/0 

I  2  RECti 
MAY  3 1  1972 


OCT291990    *« 


100w-8,'65(F6282s8)2373 


PS173.P7F5  1907 


3  2106  00204  8145 


